A Year of Sacrifice and Betrayal
by waldocasey
Summary: On Sam's seventeenth birthday, he wishes for a normal life. Dean convinces John to let his sons settle down in South Dakota near Bobby for Sam's senior year of high school. Dean hopes to bring them all closer, but Sam's taste of freedom will change him.
1. September

AN: Just a little idea that I got in my head as I watched the series progress. I'm never happy unless I'm nitpicking at flaws I see in canon characters, lol. I just don't buy John and Dean (well, maybe John, but definitely not Dean) just cutting Sam off from their lives when he went away to school. Yeah, yeah, John went to spy on him whenever he had the time, but whatever. Just not plausible. With Dean, forget about it. This is the kid brother he practically raised and then went on to die and go to Hell for, but he didn't call him for years just because Sam wanted to go to school? Nope. Even canon states that John was the one that kicked Sam out, not Sam just slamming the door behind him on his way to California.

Also, the whole "Sam got a full ride to a top rated school like Stanford with a nomadic attendance spotty scholastic record"? Riiiiiiight. Could it happen? Sure, maybe, he is portrayed as being quite a smart cookie. But Dean probably has a better chance of winning the lottery (or getting John on the phone in Season One).

So here is my little AU fic about big brother Dean granting his kid brother's birthday wish and giving Sammy a little normal before he has to be an adult and face the big bad hunting world. Too bad we all already know where Sam's head was going.

Hope you enjoy!

*************

"Got your books?"

"Yeah."

"Pencils?"

"Yeah."

"Knife?"

"Dean..."

"Pro-Geek pocket protector?"

"_Dean_.."

Dean laughed. His seventeen year old little brother's face a mask of indignation at the teasing. He wasn't fooled. Sammy could protest and scowl all he wanted to, but today, this very unusual first day of school in the Winchester family, his kid brother was practically radiating joy. As hard as Sammy tried over the past few days to hide his excitement over starting a school year at the same place where he would graduate, a place where he could be _normal_, his older brother hadn't been fooled for a second.

Looking at Sammy in the bitch seat of the Impala, Dean smiled to himself. The kid had really grown over the past year and, not for the first time, Dean was thankful that he had been planning right from the get-go to give him the full school year experience. It was only the fact that he had been putting aside money all summer that had allowed him to take his little brother on a limited budget shopping trip for some new clothes and supplies.

Instead of Dean's old cast-off jeans, which would have already been second hand when Dad had purchased them, Sammy was wearing new ones that actually fit his lanky frame, along with a non-descript, but certainly not faded, long sleeved blue shirt, as well as off-brand sneakers that were, nevertheless, pristine white. He could have been just any other kid starting the first day of class.

"Yeah, okay, Sammy. But you do have your knife though, right?" Dean's voice went from teasing to serious, his little brother's ability to defend himself primary on his list of concerns. Not that Sammy really needed the knife to protect himself. Underneath his gangly, shy, cherubic-like exterior, Sam Winchester possessed a large repertoire of self defense skills that would make grown men wary.

In his seat, Sam shifted uncomfortably, the reminder that his family was not necessarily the Bradys rankling his nerves. They were lucky that the small Sioux Falls School District wasn't the type where kids had to go through a metal detector to get inside.

"Yeah, Dean, I've got it," he huffed, avoiding his brother's penetrating stare and gazing out the window towards the flood of teenagers milling around the small school's entrance. He didn't let his big brother see the wave of nervousness that passed over his face as he realized that there would be no second chances to make a first impression this year.

Over behind the steering wheel, Dean reached into his back pocket and grabbed his wallet. Pulling a twenty from the billfold, he shoved it towards Sam.

"Here's a couple of bucks for lunch. Try to eat something, okay?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but he took the offered bill and smiled. "Yeah, I will. Thanks."

He had been too jumpy this morning to eat any breakfast, although he knew that Dean had been watching his every move, ever the overprotective brother. Even though he knew that Dean sometimes still saw him as the chubby twelve year old that would eat frosting straight out of the can, puberty had brought on a growth spurt and an appetite to match. Puppy fat had been replaced with lean muscle from hours of training with his father and brother and Sam could apparently eat an entire horse now and never gain an ounce.

Still, Dean hovering over him this morning had nearly driven him mad until he had practically shouted that he wasn't going to die of malnutrition if he didn't consume one more bowl of Lucky Charms in his lifetime.

At a loss of what else to say, Dean absently rubbed his hands on the steering wheel. Sam was looking at the school as if he were a man on his way to his execution now. For some reason, Dean had been sure that his little brother would have leaped from the car like a gazelle as soon as they pulled into the parking lot. It had taken a lot of heated words and persuasion with their father to get to this point, and now the little stinker couldn't even seem to grab the door handle.

His forehead wrinkled in thought, Dean cleared his throat as he watched Sam stare out the window.

"You know, Sammy, you don't have to do this if you don't want to, " he started cautiously, trying hard to sort out his brother's mood. "Just say the word, kiddo. It's not too late to change your mind."

Finally startled out of his thoughts, Sam looked at his older brother as if he had just sprouted another head.

"What? No. No, I want to do this, Dean," he responded quickly, his voice taking on a slightly higher pitch in its insistence.

Holding his hands up in surrender, Dean sought to calm the kid down. "Alright, no need to get your panties in a twist. Just don't want you to feel like you don't have a choice here."

Sam took a deep breath, relaxing a little. His brother always had his back, no matter what. Even with all Dean had had to do to get their father to agree to this arrangement, with all the work it had taken to get the little rented house set up, Sam knew that if he did say the word, his brother would pack everything up and take him back to join their father without a word of complaint. He had always put Sam's wants and needs first, regardless of what it did to him personally. The knowledge of that lifelong constant both warmed Sam's heart and crushed him with guilt.

"Well, go if you're going then, Sammy. Can't have you late on your first day."

"It's _Sam_," the boy insisted, the dark eyebrows on his elfin face narrowed in irritation.

"Yeah, whatever, bitch," Dean teased smirking, gently shoving his little brother towards the door.

Sam scowled and shoved back. "Cut it out, jerk," he hissed as he grabbed for the door handle.

"Hey!" Dean called as Sam got out of the car. "Remember, I'll be here at three, so don't keep me waiting."

Sam sighed and nodded. "Yeah, I know," he answered wearily, bristling at reminder of the laundry list of rules that John had drummed into both of their heads over the last few weeks.

The blatant unfairness of them smacked Sam in the face every time he had to obey one. When Dean was seventeen, he had already been in charge of them both, on his own, for weeks at time, for _years_. Sam, it seemed, was incapable of walking himself home from school.

"Have fun, Sammy," Dean said, his voice much more soft than before. Sam gave him a half smile, his hazel green eyes lighting up for the first time that morning in appreciation of all that his brother was doing to make today possible.

"Thanks, Dean." Both brothers knew that the two little words held more meaning than just appreciation of Dean's previous sentiment.

Dean watched his little brother until Sam was all the way inside the school. He sat in the parking lot, letting the car idle while he instinctively scanned the area to make sure that he didn't catch any hint of a threat.

While it was true that he had already scoped out the entire grounds earlier in the week to get a good feel for the layout, one could never be too cautious, even for a little podunk K-12 school. Finally satisfying himself that Sam was as safe as he was going to get today, he pulled back out into the street, the Impala's engine growling as it tore up the asphalt underneath him.

Driving with speed and ease, he made his way back to the little house in record time, eager to get a headstart on the projects he had scheduled for today. Bobby had given him the day off, insisting that Dean needed a few hours to himself now that Sammy was in school. Over the last few weeks, Dean had been working like a madman, putting in overtime at the salvage yard as well as getting the house set up and Sammy settled. Their dad had been over for a few days last week between hunts to look things over, check for weaknesses in their defenses and finally to lay down the law where his youngest was concerned.

Dean felt bad for his brother. In John's insistence on keeping Sam under his thumb, he had laid out a list of instructions for him a mile long, rules that the boys had never had to follow when they were younger and living on the road with him, even when they had been left alone for long periods of time. Dean knew why their father was doing this. John was feeling threatened by his boys' growing independence from him and his oldest son correctly guessed that it was a reaction based on fear of losing them that caused him to come down so hard.

Poor Sammy had been left with a strict schedule of school, studying, training and bedtimes that he had to adhere to if they were to stay in Sioux Falls without their father. On more than one occasion, Dean had wondered if their father was making this arrangement as constricting as possible so that Sam would be convinced to throw the whole thing out the window and ask to return to their nomad lifestyle where he definitely had more freedom.

Dad didn't know his youngest son as well as he thought he did, though. Dean knew that the more their father tightened the reins, the harder Sammy would struggle to prove to him that it was worth it.

In the middle of this little skirmish, Dean was the one left enforcing the edicts, the thought of disobeying his father's orders never entering his head. Even though Dean was now twenty one years old, the dynamic between father and son did not change.

Dad commanded and Dean obeyed. Case closed. After all, he had always been John's good little soldier.

Dean didn't mind toeing the line himself even at his age. Although he had always shouldered a man's burden as far as care and protection of Sammy had been concerned, their father was strict and his military mind didn't allow for deviations from the rules. The one time, in all of those years, that Dean had disobeyed his father's instructions, he had almost gotten his little brother killed. It had been a lesson he never forgot.

Once Dean had turned eighteen, John had stepped back in the parenting department. In his eyes, his oldest was now a man, old enough to die for his country and therefore, too old to be coddled. Not that he had ever coddled Dean in the first place, but his son never pointed out that little discrepancy in his father's thinking.

The only thing John had insisted on was that Dean get his GED, which he had, easily. John's own GED had afforded him a place in the Marines and, although he didn't make a big thing about it, when they were born, he wanted his sons to be at least as educated as he had been, preferably more.

Dean had never mentioned how well he had scored on the series of aptitude tests that he had been forced to take in his junior year. The well meaning guidance counselor had tried to push him towards college, but he had always known where his future lay. Dean was fully in line with following the path of what shaped itself as their family business. He remembered his Mom, and a small part of him that still ached for her gentle touch would not be appeased until her murderer was made to pay for ripping their family apart.

In the end, it had not mattered anyway. A few weeks later, they had been on the move again, the counselor and the tests forgotten and, as soon has he could, Dean had taken the GED exam and that had been the end of the whole thing.

Entering the little house, Dean made his way into the decidedly out of date kitchen. It wasn't the worst place that they had ever lived in, but it wasn't the best either. They were getting a pretty good deal on the place thanks to Bobby's connections. The owner, an older stout woman named Mrs. Archer who wore too much lipstick that tended to clot on the sides of her mouth and who usually smelled like boiled cabbage, was a friend.

She had owed Bobby one from years ago and that gratitude had translated into a deep discount on the rent with the understanding that they wouldn't ask for too much in the way of repairs and that Bobby personally guarantee that the boys wouldn't wreck the place. Bobby had snorted in disbelief when she made that stipulation because he knew the boys and knew John's temper if they did anything irresponsible. They weren't your average kids.

Picking up Sammy's still full and discarded cereal bowl, Dean dumped out the contents in the trash and put it in the sink. Sam must have really been nervous this morning as he usually wasn't one to leave a mess lying around. If anything, he was all over Dean's case for being a little on the sloppy side. But not anymore, Dean had sworn to himself. He wanted to set a good example for his little brother now that they were settled.

When he allowed himself the rare moment of pain to remember what their lives had been like before the fire, he recalled that their house in Lawrence had always felt cozy and neat. Mom didn't like messes and one of the first chores Dean remembered having to do was to pick up after himself, even at four years old. As they grew up, typical boys, they didn't really keep things too tidy at the endless motels they had called home. Dad liked order, but they usually had plenty of warning when he was coming back after a hunt to clean up. Still, now that Dean had his own place, he wanted to make sure that it was kept nice, fully believing that a cozy house to come home to was all part of the Sammy-is-normal plan.

Dean liked the kitchen the best out of all of the rooms in the little house, even over the small bedroom that he had taken for himself grudgingly. With only two bedrooms in the house, he had wanted to save one for their father but, in typical gruff fashion, John had refused to put his eldest on what was basically the boy's own couch for the precious few days that he would be able to spare staying with them between hunts.

Perhaps Dean's fondness of the kitchen was just a result of his love affair with food but, more likely, it was because he had large patches of warm and fuzzies in his mind of the kitchen in the family home in Kansas. Even here in a no man's land part of South Dakota he found comfort amidst the avocado green decor that someone probably had thought looked really nice in the seventies, just because it was a place where, over a mashed together casserole of no defining description, he could pretend for a couple of hours a day that they were still a family.

His stomach growling in protest of his indifference towards it so far, he went to the fridge to pull out cold cuts for a sandwich. In truth, he had been just as nervous about this morning as his brother had been. Even though they had both attended a string of schools across the country, there was just something different about being settled in one place. But it was what Sam had wanted, and what Sammy wanted, his big brother had always tried his damnedest to give.

On the refrigerator door was a slightly fuzzy snapshot of Sam on his birthday in May. In his hand was a Little Debbie Swiss Roll with one lit candle plopped in the middle. It had become something of a tradition that their fly by night birthday celebrations always included one as the birthday "cake", seeing as neither one of them usually had one. John tried, really he did, but holidays had always taken a back seat to his obsession, even as he watched his boys grow right before his very eyes with very little fanfare to trumpet the years as they passed.

Later on, even as money became less tight with Dean working and scamming alongside their father, the Swiss Roll had become as much a part of their advancing years as the years themselves. When Sammy had blown on the lone candle in the bedroom of their room at the Pine View Motor Lodge in Duluth (there were no pines and, as such, no view of them either), Dean had taken a quick snap with his cellphone camera and now had the print obediently stuck to the outdated fridge as a reminder of why they were in Sioux Falls.

All it had taken was for him to mistakenly overhear his little brother's breathy plea of being normal this year to snap him into action. A simple birthday wish whispered over a solitary candle in a mass produced confection. One that had been oft repeated by a younger brother desperate to have something other than the decidedly abnormal lifestyle that had been the only life that Sammy ever knew.

The fights between Sam and their father were becoming far more frequent and far more hostile. How that was even possible, Dean didn't know, but it was the truth just the same. The year that Sammy was eight and had lifted Dad's journal, the same year that John had had the poor timing to miss Christmas with a troubled and now wholly disillusioned son, became the turning point in the relationship between father and youngest son. The fighting had begun that year and only increased in volume as time went on.

Dean was desperate to repair relations between the two people he loved most in the world. They were all that they had, all that _he _had, and it tore him up to see them at each other's throats. Even if they were blind to it, Dean could clearly see the problem. Sam and their father were practically the same person. Driven, stubborn, unable to see any point of view other than their own which, unfortunately, usually turned out to be polar opposite of what the other one thought. And there was Dean, perpetual monkey in the middle of the maelstrom that was the Winchester family.

He knew that he needed to do something to quench the fires that were smoldering before they become a full out blaze of catastrophic proportions. Time, a little distance, a cooling of tempers and some heavy duty compromises all around. Perhaps absence would make the hearts grow fonder.

So as Sammy had gazed despondently at the curl of smoke from the now extinguished candle in the Swiss Roll, a sad ten year old looking face plopped on top of a string bean six feet tall frame, the wheels of Dean's mind had already begun to formulate a plan of sorts.

"Wishes are horses today, Sammy," he had commented cryptically, grinning at the confused stare on his little brother's face.

It had not been easy to convince their father that Dean's plan was a sound one. In the end, it had been the convincing argument that Sammy might be less inclined to rebel against the hunter's life if he was allowed a small measure of time away from it. Faced with the pleading stares of his youngest, the steadfast assurances of his eldest and the relative safety net provided by the near presence of Bobby, a hunter whose skill and dedication to his boys were both traits that John appreciated, finally wore John down. Against his better judgement, he had acquiesced, knowing that over the years he had taken much from his boys' childhoods.

It was risk, he knew, for a variety of reasons. Their Bedouin lifestyle had always given John the impression that if something dark were to come after him and the boys, it would have to work hard to find them. Another concern had been CPS. One too many bruises on the boys at one time or another had necessitated a middle of the night move to another state before a social worker could investigate. It wasn't as if they could just tell the social worker that the boys had been banged up by an angry spirit during a hunt. That would have resulted in foster care and a psychiatric ward for John most likely.

As Dean now shut the fridge door, he couldn't help but see the list of instructions, carefully penned in his father's military precision handwriting, meant to leave neither of his boys in any doubt about what their limitations and responsibilities were during this next year. During his visit, John had sat them both down at the rickety kitchen table, paper in hand, and had gone over every detail with them, not satisfied to proceed to the next item on the list until he had received twin "yes, sirs" to each stipulation.

He had given Sam, and therefore, by virtue of necessity, Dean, a fairly tight schedule. Wake up at six a.m., an hour of exercise, breakfast, school, pick up at three o'clock, an hour of weapons training, an hour of research study, dinner, homework and then bed by ten for Sam. The last rule had made Sam grimace and Dean had felt sorry for him, knowing that it was just another measure of their father trying to dissuade his youngest from the belief that "normal" was better than the life they usually led. On the hunt, John only cared that his sons were getting enough sleep to ensure that they were alert. How they managed it was never a concern.

Some of this Dean agree to, some he did not. But, if he didn't agree, he at least understood. If Sammy wasn't allowed to go anywhere after school, it was because it was safer at home with Dean. In theory, he was allowed some free time on the weekends, as long as it was with friends that Dean had met and approved (only after they had been investigated, of course), but both boys knew that Sammy's free weekends would be few and far between. Their father had already made it quite clear that if they were within a day's driving range, they would be joining him in the field.

Dean had been pretty sure that John would be certain to hunt within that range for the duration of the school year. Dean was also pretty sure that he would find a way to work within the rules that allowed his brother some semblance of a social life. He wasn't going to keep Sammy in a choke collar. His little brother didn't respond well to such treatment.

Dean's cell phone's distinctive ring pulled him from his thoughts as he reached for it and he smiled seeing his father coming up on the caller ID. Unconsciously, he stood up a little straighter as he pushed the talk button, happy to hear from John so soon after his visit.

"Hey, Dad."

"Hey, Dean. How's everything going?"

The familiar comfort of his father's deep voice warmed him as it always had when they were separated. Just that small connection, reminding him that he wasn't completely alone in the care of his brother, gave him confidence that everything would be okay.

"Yeah, everything's good, Dad. How about with you?"

"I'm on my way to Minnesota to meet up with Jim and then we're going to check out a possible angry spirit outside of Milwaukee. Should be routine. Jim's only joining me because he has a new source for some good lore books that we're gonna stop by on the way back."

Dean frowned. His father was rambling. Something he only did when he was nervous, but Dean didn't call him on it.

"Hopefully, we'll be back to his place by Friday. If we are, I'll be expecting you boys to meet up with us there," John ordered, a little more gruffly than he had intended.

"Yes, sir. We will," Dean answered smartly, ever the obedient soldier. A few tense seconds of silence passed before his father spoke again. A little more softly this time, and Dean wondered if this was the true reason for the call.

"Did Sammy get off to school this morning okay?"

Dean smiled to himself, his father's carefully implemented indifferent attitude showing at the seams to his eldest who sometimes knew the older man better than he did himself.

"Yes, sir. Took him myself and stayed to make sure that he was out of harm's way before I left."

"That's my man," John spit out gruffly, his three little words sweeter to his oldest than Christmas candy to a toddler. "Listen, Dean, I gotta go, but I'll call back in a couple of days. Watch out for Sammy, son. I'm counting on you."

Dean allowed himself a small smile since he knew his father couldn't see him, the words as familiar to him as his own face.

"Yes, sir. I promise. Bye, Dad."

"Bye." Click.

Such was the extent of a father to son heart to heart with John Wincester.

Dean was still grinning as he shoved his phone back into his pocket and reached for his sandwich. He ate with one hand as he pried open the freezer door with the other. Pulling out a package of frozen chicken, he threw it into the fridge section to thaw for dinner. The concept of actually cooking was starting to grow on him. Eating out for every meal was cost prohibitive and, although he had been mildly concerned about looking like a chick as he uncomfortably ambled up and down the supermarket aisles, he was starting to get used to the routine.

With the help of a couple of dog eared cookbooks that they had found shoved in a corner of the musty attic, he had managed to keep them both reasonably well fed, all things considered. It was amazing what you could do with a couple of cans of Campbell's soup.

Ambling out to the living room, he turned on the ancient television and surfed the limited channels until he found a daytime talk show, one of the guilty pleasures of his life that he would deny to the death and gouge out the eyes of anyone that actually caught him. Flopping on the couch, he kicked his legs up onto the battered coffee table and settled back to enjoy his first day off in what seemed like forever.

He missed the hunt. Hell, he really missed his father. John was his personal idol, his role model and guide. Still, it wasn't as if his dad was going to be around less now than he usually was. He would be gone for weeks at a time anyway, but Dean missed the recent camaraderie that they had built up over the last few years. Once Dean had finished school, John had started treating him more like a comrade in arms and less like a son.

Although Dean secretly lamented the loss of his father, he relished in the praise he received as a full time hunter. In the back of his mind, he had always known that Sammy was the favorite son but now, finally, Dean thought he had found his niche in John Winchester's life. He was a good hunter, and an instinctual one, the adrenaline rush he felt when finishing a job the closest thing to bliss that he thought he would ever experience. Well, that, and the time he had spent with bendy Lisa the yoga instructor.

As the day progressed, he puttered around the house, taking a minute or two here and there to sort out a couple of little nagging repairs that had been getting on his nerves. It kept him occupied, kept his mind off his father somewhere working without him, kept his thoughts off of dreams for himself that would never come true. If he could just keep them in the back of his mind, he could get through the next year as painlessly as possible.

It was while he was out in the minuscule backyard attempting to coax the antique lawnmower to life that he realized how quickly the day flew by. It was almost three, so he toweled off his greasy hands and hopped in the Impala to retrieve Sam on time.

He pulled into the parking lot just as the school doors were opening and it didn't take long for him to spot his little brother loping along in the crowd. As Sam made his way over to the car, Dean could already see the broad smile on the kid's face lighting it up with the intensity of the sun.

It was then that he knew that all of this was worth it.


	2. October

Dean sat on the lumpy plaid sofa, tiredly nursing a beer. His whole body ached. Bobby had him working on an engine rebuild all day and it was just being a complete bitch.

Not that he was complaining. Bobby had been damn good to them since the move.

He was idly watching the small television that was showing a decade old segment of _This Old House_. Bob Vila was giving careful instruction on grouting tile with far too much enthusiasm in Dean's opinion. Normally, he wouldn't give crap like this the time of day, but the downstairs bathroom in the rented house looked like hell, worse than most of the run down motel rooms that he had lived in over the years. Dean didn't know jack about home improvement, but he thought that Bobby might be willing to lend a hand and, whatever Bobby didn't know, Dean would figure it out for himself.

Not that they really had the money for renovations on a house that wasn't even theirs but, the longer they stayed, the more attached Dean found himself becoming. Realistically, he knew it was only temporary. Sammy would be done with school in the spring and then it would be back out onto the road with their dad. However, until that time, Dean didn't want his kid brother ashamed of bringing home the select few friends that he had made.

Bobby had been paying him decently, probably more than Dean's work was actually worth, but the monthly upkeep of the house and groceries to feed his kid brother's bottomless pit of a stomach took most of his pay. They always had _enough_, but just _only enough_. Sadly, he had realized early on that staying in one place made it impossible to live off of fake credit cards and hustling pool. Asking Dad for money was out of the question as far as Dean was concerned.

He felt guilty enough already that he wasn't helping his father shoulder the burden of their family crusade anymore. Without Dean's assistance, John was probably barely getting by as it was, the scamming and hustling much more difficult with only a party of one, and Dean figured that if he was bold enough to talk his father into this little arrangement, he should be man enough to keep them afloat on his own.

Unconsciously, he shoved his hand into the front right pocket of his faded jeans, verifying the wad of cash he had stuffed in there. Joining his father last weekend for the poltergeist thing in Michigan had been really good all around. Besides hustling almost three hundred dollars off of some local schmuck at the bar next to their motel, Dad had been missing them, and Sammy was actually in a decent mood for a change despite the fact that he had apparently been coming down with bronchitis.

The welcome shift in attitude between his father and brother had been good to see. Now that Sammy was getting in some "normal" time in his life, he didn't seem to resent the time spent with their father hunting. Between research and the salt and burn, Dad and Sam had actually talked for a change instead of just Dad barking orders and Sammy giving him lip.

Over the low volume of the television, Dean could hear the start of his brother's wet cough beginning again. Checking his watch, he noticed that it was almost time for another dose of the prescription cough medicine that they had picked up after their Monday night visit to the local Urgent Care clinic. Dean had been really proud of the fact that he could pay for his brother's doctor visit himself instead of relying on the phony insurance cards that their father had handed him back in August.

Pushing himself up from the couch, he climbed the stairs and gave Sammy's door a brief knock before coming in.

Sam was bundled in his bed, books and papers piled around him in what appeared to be an unsuccessful attempt to study. Dean frowned when he saw them, having specifically told his stubborn little brother to get some sleep when he sent him up earlier in the evening. He lifted an eyebrow in annoyance, earning himself a flushed face scowl in return, Sam looking all of six years old pouting under the blankets.

The older brother refrained from making any comment that might provoke a fight. Neither one of them had the energy at this point as Sam hadn't been sleeping well and when Sammy didn't sleep well, Dean didn't either. Dean refilled the small measuring cap from the cough medicine bottle and handed to his little brother silently. Sam keeping the scowl firmly in place as he reached for it, knocking it back like a shot of whiskey that somehow made him feel less childlike than just obediently taking his medicine like a good little boy.

The battle of silent wills continued after Dean washed the cap off and replaced it. Giving his little brother a 'don't mess with me' look, he proceeded to clear all of the study material from Sam's bed, daring the congested teen to say something about it. For all of his bravado, Sam didn't have the energy to argue, especially since he could already feel the wave of drowsiness that the cough syrup induced coming over him.

The congested boy turned over onto his side and burrowed into his pillow, his eyes already shut tightly in exhaustion. Dean reached out a hand, pushing aside the slightly damp bangs as he pressed the back of his hand to Sam's forehead. Even with his eyes closed, Sam still managed a fairly decent scowl, his only outward sign of indignation at the prospect of his big brother going all mother hen on him, the large rough hand surprisingly gentle as it searched for an increase in fever.

Satisfied that Sam's forehead was hovering in a normal range all things considered, Dean pulled away and straightened back up.

"Get some sleep, Sammy," he commanded, his voice quiet but firm. "I mean it, kiddo. I come back in here and find books on your bed again, I'll be throwing them in the woodstove to help with the heating costs. Got it?'

Sam managed a small grunt of assent as his slipped back off into a heavy sleep. Dean watched him for a couple of minutes to reassure himself that his kid brother was okay before soundlessly slipping out of the room and heading back downstairs.

Flopping back down on the couch, Dean watched the credits of the show roll, half annoyed that he had missed the final part of the segment. Oh, well. He would just have to figure the rest out for himself. Luckily for him, he had always managed to pick up stuff like that fairly easily. He might not have Sam's freaky almost photographic memory, but he did just fine for himself, thank you very much.

With nothing of any interest on the idiot box at the moment, Dean sat and sipped on the slightly warm brew, his mind wandering idly. He was fairly tired himself as it had been a long week so far. The hunt for the poltergeist, while exhilarating, had been long and taxing. He was still nursing a small bruise on his hip from being thrown into the hard wooden banister of the house while he had been diverting the little nasty's attention from his father, its real threat.

Slightly injured, the trip home had been hard enough, but he was also somewhat sleep deprived, having kept himself up most of the time since they got back to make sure that his little brother was comfortable and tended to. He didn't mind though. Besides his usual feelings of protectiveness over the little snot, Dean was so proud of the way that Sammy was making a real effort to get along with their father that he practically beamed.

Without Sam sulking, like he normally did on a hunt, John's mood had been considerably bolstered by his younger son's genuine participation in the job at hand, as well as his respectful "yes sirs" and "no sirs" that carried none of the usual underlining surliness. As such, for the first time in years, John found himself truly enjoying Sam's company, taking pains to compliment the boy's thorough research skills and earning himself a rare and mile wide dimpled smile in return.

As for Dean, without having to run himself ragged putting out the familial fires that flared to life constantly around his father and brother, he was finally free to enjoy the adrenaline rush of roasting the big bad without other worries. When the spectral prankster had been put to rest, the late night dinner that they had shared at the diner down the road had almost been surreal. Dad never once brought up the next job. Instead, conversation had been restricted to how Sam was doing at school and what Dean was doing at Bobby's. If Dean closed his eyes, he could almost imagine them as a normal family.

Dad had taken a slightly congested Sam back to the motel for a date with a shot of NyQuil while Dean hunted up action at the bar. His good mood definitely improving his game and resulting in the unexpected windfall that meant that he could splurge a little on tile and grout, as well as putting some aside for the second hand laptop he was planning on surprising his little brother with at Christmas. He didn't even feel tired when he jumped out of bed before the sun had finished rising the next morning, his father's strongly brewed coffee inspiring him to get an early start back to South Dakota.

Dragging his reluctant and still slightly drugged little brother out of bed, he packed the car quickly with their duffels, quietly observing the raw emotion on his father's face when a half-asleep Sam uncharacteristically burrowed himself into John's broad chest, quietly imploring the father that he barely ever spoke to with any civility to be careful. The scene was both touching to observe as well as a bit comical with Sam, unused to the rapidly increasing height that brought him nose to nose with his father, ducking his head into John's shoulder, his eyes still closed in a hopeful return to slumber.

Dean averted his gaze, not acknowledging the traitorous tear that slid down his father's rugged cheek as he pressed his face into his youngest's mop of brown hair, nor the choking sounds in his father's words as he quietly gave his promise. When Dad had somewhat reluctantly relinquished the embrace he had around Sammy, Dean watched John bundle the boy into the backseat of the Impala where a couple of small pillows and a thin blanket awaited him. John got his youngest to knock back another dose of the foul green liquid before settling himself into the makeshift bed and he couldn't resist the urge to plant a quick kiss on top of the unusually compliant child's head before closing the car door.

Sammy was already asleep by the time Dean finished his last check of the motel room, making sure that none of their few possessions were inadvertently being left behind. In constant consideration for his little brother's comfort and care, Dean had turned the car on earlier, warming the interior to ward off the early morning chill. With the welcoming warmth, Sammy had succumbed quickly, the familiar purr of the large engine lulling him back into dreamland just as it had since he was a colicky infant who had only found comfort when his daddy took him for long drives.

Their father had walked back with Dean to the car, an indecipherable expression on his bearded face. Dean had stiffened, fearing an unexpected rebuke for some unknown offense, years of being on the receiving end of John's ever unpredictable mood swings making him nervous. He had thought that the weekend had gone well, but when his father had approached him, the older man's demeanor was distinctly giving the impression of discomfort. John didn't speak for a moment, increasing his oldest son's unease and almost causing Dean to miss the quiet words that he first spoke.

"He looks happy, Son," John muttered, his eyes cast down to the pavement of the parking lot. "You're doing a good job with him."

Dean had taken in a sharp breath in surprise. The sharpness stemming from both the rare compliment as well as the horrific realization of what that admission was costing his father in pride. He knew without being told that his father was more or less admitting that Dean was better at parenting Sammy than John was himself. His father's words chilled Dean to the core.

In his wildest dreams he wouldn't imagine trying to show John up in anything. His father was Dean's living breathing hero and he would rather cut off his own arm than do something to make John feel less than himself in any way. Of course, after all of their years on the road with John running off to one hunt or another, Dean did have more actual experience in the day to day care of the youngest Winchester, but it was a topic that was never openly admitted to in conversation.

Switching gears to his usual mask of bravado, Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat and pasted a smart ass smirk on his face.

"Nah, not really. The kid gives me grief all the time. You're the good cop now," he assured his father.

John laughed softly for a second, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. Regardless of what Dean thought, he knew both of his sons too well to be fooled by his oldest's attempts to reassure him that he was anything more than a drill sergeant to them most of the time. He loved both of his boys with an intensity that frightened him sometimes, which only fueled his driving passion to do whatever needed to be done to keep them safe. Even if it came at the cost of their love for him.

In less than two months time, his twenty-one year old son had managed to tame Sammy's rebellious streak that John had been ripping his hair out over for years. Sammy had been respectful, enthusiastic, attentive and affectionate. Things that he had not been since he was eight and, truthfully, John had never again expected to see.

"Besides," Dean had continued, somewhat uncomfortably, "he's coming down with something. I'm not sure how that happened."

John, startled at his eldest's obviously guilty admission, turned to give the older boy a good hard look. Sure enough, Dean's eyes were downcast as he was prone to do whenever he felt responsible for something going wrong. John inwardly swore, not for the first time, his oft repeated commands to Dean to keep his brother safe biting him in the ass. He had never meant to make the kid feel like he had to protect Sammy from _everything_.

"Dean, this isn't the first or last time your brother is going to get a little cold, or whatever it is. You can't take that on yourself," he scolded, using the firm alpha male voice that Dean had always responded best to.

Dean had nodded, somewhat jerkily, and John could tell that his son was not entirely convinced of the sincerely of his words.

"Dude, you boys caught everything under the sun growing up. Do you blame me for that?"

Those words did get Dean's attention and he snapped back to attention, a look of horror on his face.

"No, sir! Of course not."

John allowed himself a small smile at his son's sudden realization and Dean, sensing an ease in the tension, grinned sheepishly at the older man. His father didn't say anything, just grabbed him in a quick awkward half hug and opened the driver's side door of the Impala for him. He noticed, with a small smile, the way John's hand still reverently stroked the handle of the classic car and Dean remembered that the old girl had been his father's baby before she had been his.

"Get going, you got a long trip back."

Dean had nodded and slipped in behind the wheel, the happiness he always felt driving washing over him. He gave his father one last nod, the unspoken communication between them filled with the emotional words neither one of them were any good at speaking out loud. When he pulled out of the parking lot, his father was still standing in watch over their departure, his hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans, keeping an eye on his boys for as long as he could before they disappeared again.

Sam had slept almost the entire trip back, his congestion getting a little more pronounced. Dean had allowed him to go to school on Monday, but when he picked him up at three, they had gone straight over to the Urgent Care clinic.

Maybe he had been overreacting, maybe not, but Dean knew to his very bones that his father had entrusted both of his babies to Dean, and it wasn't a responsibility that he took lightly.


	3. November

The last grocery bags got thrown onto the small table with a loud _thunk! _

It never ceased to amaze Dean how troublesome it was to shop for more than a couple of days worth of food. Especially given how much more crowded the small market seemed than normal.

Of course, with Thanksgiving just a week away, he supposed he shouldn't have been that surprised. After all, he had not been the only one peering determinedly into the frozen food case, trying to find the perfect turkey.

That's right.

Turkey.

This year, Dean Winchester, a guy more than happy to eat jerky and Funions every day of the week, was going to attempt to cook a Thanksgiving turkey. How hard could it be, after all? Wasn't he the same Dean Winchester than shot a werewolf dead at point blank range when he was just sixteen?

_Hell, yeah_.

A frozen block of poultry was not going to get the better of him. It was Dean vs the overgrown chicken, ladies and gentlemen, and the bird was going down in the first.

Pulling the exceedingly heavy tom out of the warped plastic bag, the handles stretched dangerously having almost broken during the trip from car to kitchen, Dean set it down on the table, warily studying it as if it were an adversary ripe for the conquering. One of their cookbook finds had been a battered copy titled _"Better Homes and Gardens: Holidays_". Inside its yellowing pages, Dean had gleaned the culinary secrets of things like turkeys that needed to be thawed for a couple of days before roasting, inexplicable gelatinous creations like cranberry molds, as well as vile looking dishes like green bean casserole.

Dean wasn't sure why anyone would want to eat something that looked like a pan of green snot, and probably tasted like it too, but he had purchased the necessary ingredients for it just the same. If it was traditional, this year they were doing it. Besides, Sam was always on some kind of weirdo health kick, so Dean was sure that he would at least appreciate the attempt to put some green vegetables on the dinner table.

Not that Dean was about to start growing lady parts, no matter what Bobby said to him, but he had come to the conclusion that holiday cooking was just like any hunt. The answers lay in the research and making sure that one had the right tools for the job. The cookbooks were just like any other books holding the secrets to a successful slaying. With the right preparation, he could smack the holiday spirit into submission just like any other spirit he and his father had beaten over the years.

Yeah, that was the plan, anyway.

As he put away the bags of frozen veggies, the metal tubes of rolls, the bags of bread cubes that proclaimed themselves to be stuffing and the bizarrely shaped sweet potatoes, he couldn't help smiling to himself. Sure, Bobby had ribbed him for days about wanting to put on a big turkey day spread, but that didn't mean that the grizzled old hunter hadn't promised to be there with bells on.

On top of that, Dean had been more forceful than usual in asking his father to make the effort to be around as well. John, attuned to the shift in tone in his oldest son's voice that convinced him that it was important to both of his children this year, had promised to make it as well, regardless of where he was or what he was doing.

Yep, this year was shaping up to be the banner of all family holidays. At least, that was what it seemed like until the phone rang.

___

Sam's hands were sweating as he pressed in the buttons for speed dial number one on his phone. His heart had still been racing from the accident, even before the kids were ushered into the patrol car. Although his father and brother had both tried to teach him to be calm in events like this, this was his first time with real life experience, and he was just failing miserably at the acting cool and nonchalant part.

He must have been _out of his mind_ to agree to the little joyride. Maybe he could claim that he had been temporarily possessed by a vengeful spirit. Sure, in other families, that kind of defense would fall flat on its face in absurdity, but, let's face it, his family wasn't like other families.

It didn't matter. Possessed or not, Sam knew that when his father found out about it, he was dead anyway. Hopefully Dean would run some interference. After all, it's not like his big brother had never pulled any stunts like this. He was bound to be sympathetic to Sam's situation. Right?

Holding the phone up to his ear, he listened as the call rang through, choking just the tiniest bit in nerves when it was picked up on the other end.

"Dean?"

______

When Dean heard the signature ring of his cell that identified the caller as his kid brother, he had been a little surprised. It was only a few minutes after eight, and Sam had until nine to study at his friend Brian Hart's house. It was one of the ways that Dean was managing to give the kid a little bit of a social life. Their father's rules didn't specify _where_ Sam had to study in the evenings, only that he did.

Early on in the school year, Dean had looked into Brian and his family the first time Sam had mentioned him.

Classic Cleavers, in his opinion.

Dad was a professor of Native American studies at one of the local colleges, Mom was a housewife. Brian, their only child, was a straight A student, never in any trouble. Nothing strange or unusual in their pasts. As far as Dean was concerned, Brian was just the kind of friend he wanted his geeky little brother to have. Safe. _Normal_.

During the following weeks, Sam and Brian had developed a little bit of a routine. A couple of nights a week, Sam would spend a few hours over at the picture perfect gingerbread house where Brian lived with his parents, and a couple of nights a week, Brian could be found hunched over his textbooks with Sam at the kitchen table in the little rented house of the Winchester boys.

Dean knew that, at first, Brian's parents were more than a little wary of the two brothers and their unusual living arrangements. But then Dean had taken pains to introduce himself, turning on his megawatt charm in full force. By the time the little meeting was over, Mr. and Mrs. Hart were more than satisfied, completely buying the heart tugging story of motherless brothers, a travelling salesman father trying his best to provide for them, and an older brother who was working hard to give his sibling a better life. Couple that with Sam's shy dimpled smile that made women want to adopt and feed him and it was all over.

Hook, line and sinker.

Everything had been going so well. So why exactly was Dean finding himself driving, a little too fast on the slick roads to be entirely safe, down to the police station to pick up his soon-to-be murdered kid brother?

_____________

The minute Sam saw his brother stride into the police station, he felt a strange and immediate mixture of relief and fear. Relief that his big brother would help him out of whatever mess he had gotten himself into, and fear that once he did, Dean might just decide that it was more fun to kill him himself. His brother made his way over to him quickly, worry oozing out of every pore as he gave Sam a thorough once over to make sure that the kid was in one piece.

"Are you okay, Sammy?" Dean's voice was calm, controlled. Low volume that belied his panic over his kid brother being injured.

Sam just nodded jerkily, unable to find his voice, his state of anxiety still running high over the uncertainty of what was going to happen to him. No one was speaking to the kids involved about how the situation was going to be handled.

Dean stared at him for a moment, as if trying to reassure himself that Sam's non-verbal response was not an indication of a more serious problem than the one at hand. When he finally decided on an extreme case of nerves, he reached out to give the trembling teen a quick comforting pat on the shoulder before going up to the desk and inquiring about what had happened.

If Sam was feeling comforted by his brother's presence, it was short lived. During the conversation with the arresting officer, Dean's face had gone strangely red, a lot like their father's did when he was furious. Sam didn't need to hear the conversation to know what his brother was being told.

Right now Dean was hearing about how Sam and three other seniors had boosted the new BMW of one of the fathers and then subsequently skidded on early season ice and crashed it into a light pole just outside of town.

Curtis Reynolds' new BMW, to be precise.

Curtis Reynolds, swiny divorce attorney and overall local douchebag.

Curtis Reynolds, father of Trevor, the town's all around bad boy, the driver of said boosted car in tonight's little escapade and, worst of all, public enemy number one on the list of people that Sam Winchester was to stay as far away from as possible, so sayeth his big brother.

Sam just sat fidgeting in his seat, watching his brother grow increasingly more red in the face until Dean turned towards him and shot him such a heated glare that Sam was sure they would not need accelerant for their next salt and burn. His brother's rage would be more than enough fuel to get the job done.

__________

Dean was having trouble believing what he was hearing. Sam was just not the kind of kid that got himself into trouble like this. He was the goody good little book worm that stayed at home and studied, keeping his head down and not causing waves, unless it was to mouth off to their father. For some reason, his little brother had always had a talent for _that_. But otherwise, Sam never behaved this way.

He wasn't quite sure what to make of his little brother finding a rebellious streak this late in the game of his teen years. With a small pang of discomfort in his stomach, he had to wonder if it was because their father wasn't around to keep him in check.

Sure, Sam could go thirteen rounds in vocal battles with John before crossing the line that ended up getting his ass handed to him, but he never actually set out to cause trouble. Sam was certainly smart enough to know just how much wrath would be rained down upon him if he had.

Glancing over at the kid, Dean could see that Sam was practically to the point of hyperventilation. Sighing deeply in frustration, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. There would be plenty of time to rip Sammy a new one on the way home.

Dean knew that he could be quite a smooth operator when he wanted to be. Fifteen minutes later, he had the whole score. The kids were out joyriding and caught the business end of a light pole. Earlier, Daddy Reynolds had called in a stolen car report, only to choke on his words when he found out that his own little boy was the ringleader of the pack.

Still, by law, all occupants of the car were complicit in the "theft", so Daddy had made the magnanimous offer to drop the charges if each one of the four (including his own kid, theoretically) ponied up a share of his one thousand dollar deductible to get the car fixed.

Dean had practically spit out his gum at that part. A real sweet deal, if you asked him. Even though his kid is the driver, and the one that crashed the car, Daddy gets the other three families to fork over deductable money in exchange for a clean criminal record.

Nice. Real nice.

Especially since little boy, and therefore Daddy, would have been held liable if any of the passengers had been injured during this fiasco. Dean grits his teeth and glowers dangerously at the spike haired punk sitting two chairs away from his little brother. Reynolds Jr. is damn lucky that Sam is not hurt. A hair out of place and that boy would have found himself buried underneath the Black Hills.

A little more charm and Dean has convinced the officer to release Sam into his custody even though he legally has no guardianship over his brother. He assures them of Sam's attendance in court the day after next, money in hand, ready to sincerely apologize for his participation in tonight's drama in exchange for all being forgiven and never mentioned again on his permanent record.

Through all of this, Sam has not uttered a sound, even when his brother grabs him, none too gently, by the back of his hoodie and yanks him to his feet, propelling him out the door and into the car.

________

The first few minutes of the drive back to the house are tense. Dean is too angry to speak coherently and Sam just doesn't know how to explain what he did to his brother. He is crushed with guilt over acting so recklessly and thoughtlessly, never mind the overwhelming embarrassment of having to admit that it was all over a girl. Dean wouldn't understand. He has been attracting the fairer sex like bees to honey Sam's entire life.

It's also not just the monumentally poor choice in getting into a car he knows he has no business being in.

It's knowing that he has hurt his one really good friend by abandoning him for the promise of some cheap thrills with a girl he probably has no shot with whatsoever. The look on Brian's face when Sam takes off and leaves him behind is burned into Sam's mind for eternity. He's not exactly sure how he is found at the Harts' house, but just a few minutes into their study session, the doorbell rings.

When Brian opens the door, he is shocked into silence when the blond sex goddess Amanda Richards, from Sam's English class, is standing in the threshold. Her voice is sultry and teasing as she convinces Sam to come for a ride with some friends.

It'll be a blast, she says. Just some kicks for an hour or so.

Trevor has his dad's new beemer, she purrs, as she does that really cute thing where she sucks gently on the end of a lock of hair, making every hormone in Sam's body kick into overdrive.

No, there's only room for one, sorry Brian, and before Sam knows it, he's ditching his good friend for a joyride in a stolen car with Amanda, Trevor and another senior named Jack that Sam knows by face, but has never really met. He also doesn't realize, until the jokes start, that these three have known Brian since grammar school and wouldn't even take the time to spit on him if he was on fire.

Sam pushes the guilty flutter in stomach aside, trying hard to concentrate on the gorgeous blond sitting overly close to him in the back seat. In his own mind, he's just a geeky little brainiac that Dean has teased unmercifully his entire life and he can't believe his good fortune in being in close contact with such a beautiful creature.

He doesn't realize that, at some point, the ugly ducking became a swan.

His father's grueling training sessions have built strong muscles that peek out from underneath his long sleeved tees, his shy half smiles that earned clucking admiration from middle aged female school teachers over the years are now making girls his own age swoon, and his shaggy brown hair that, although short in the back at his father's insistence, is long enough in the front to hang into his hazel green eyes, giving him an irresistible mix of careless indifference and cute little boy.

Over time, the short, chubby geek that Sam has known in the mirror has transformed into a Teen Beat poster pin-up, only Sam doesn't see this himself.

In the car with his brother, Sam keeps his head down, waiting for the inevitable storm to be unleashed. He's betrayed his friend, embarrassed himself in front of the girl he is crushing on by freaking out during the arrest and, to top it all off, he has disobeyed his father's rules and pissed off his big brother.

Yeah, there have been better days in his life.

He doesn't have to wait long for the explosion. Before they are even over town lines, Dean slams his hands on the steering wheel, his quest for patience at an end.

"_What the hell_, Sam!"

_______

Dean's hands are stinging where he hit them on the Impala's steering wheel. He hadn't meant to lose his cool like that, but _god damn it_! What is going on in that head of his brother's? He swears that the kid is just clueless.

"Do you know what could have happened to you tonight?"

His voice is hard and raspy. It's not really a question, more like an accusation. He looks over and sees Sam's face blush an even deeper red than it has already been and the sight of this tempers his anger a little.

Dean reaches up with his right hand and rubs his face tiredly. He doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to play bad cop. He knows his brother well enough to see how upset Sam is and reminds himself that it's the kid's first time in real trouble.

Sam is determinedly staring straight ahead and Dean knows his brother's moods well enough to know that the kid is struggling to keep it together. He reminds himself that Sam is unhurt, that the accident could have been so much worse and, as much as he doesn't like it, this will all be over as soon as the two fifty in extortion money is paid. He has the money set aside. It might make for a leaner Christmas next month than he wanted to have, but Sam's future is obviously more important.

He can't delude himself into thinking that they can keep this away from their father. Dean would never dream of doing such a thing. Sam is John's son and he has every right to know what has happened tonight. It's not going to be a pleasant conversation, he knows. Their father is going to tear into Dean up one side and back down the other for allowing his little brother to be out at night.

The unpleasant reality of this fact stings him, re-igniting his earlier anger over the kid's intentional duplicity in breaking the rules. Dean has stuck his neck out to allow Sam a little more freedom than he should have had, and this is how the little brat repays him.

"What were you thinking, Sam?" he demands, the irritation that he has been forcing himself to repress for the past hour edging its way out of him in full force.

In truth, Sam doesn't know how to answer that question. What _was_ he thinking? He's never been the kind of person who would dump a friend to go chasing tail. Brian and his family have been really nice to him, nicer than he has ever known before outside of his very small immediate family and the handful of hunters that his father trusted enough to bring the boys into contact with over the years. Now he doesn't know if the friendship is even salvageable and that thought pains him.

"I'm waiting for an answer here, kiddo," Dean scolds in a voice that sounds suspiciously close to their father's tone and Sam can feel himself bristle from it out of sheer habit.

He finds himself forgetting that the person on the other end of this stunted conversation is the brother that has always given a hundred and ten percent of himself and not the constantly absent father that Sam can't stop himself from treating with hostility because it's easier than admitting how much he misses him when he's gone.

Sam huffs in annoyance, reminds himself of all of the trouble that his brother got into during his teen years and can't repress the hurt feelings that his brother is being a hypocrite.

"You've done worse," he mutters, mentally deluding himself into thinking that his words are not loud enough to be heard.

Dean's hearing, however, is just fine and he has no trouble either in picking up the words or the underlining petulance behind them. He is more than a little perturbed by the nerve of his little brother attempting to throw Dean's teen mischief in his face at a time like this.

Dean may not have been an angel, but his exploits were few and far between and he never managed to get himself arrested. When he was Sam's age, Dean had a much healthier fear of John's temper and his belt, both of which were overpowered by Dean's almost paralyzing fear of his father's disappointment. Topping that off with his blind devotion to his little brother's safety and well being and it didn't make for much opportunity to run amok.

"I never said I was perfect, Sammy," he warned in a low growl as he fought to keep calm, "but this...I don't know what this was. I thought you knew better than to boost a car in a town where we've put down roots."

Sam bit down on the inside of his cheek at the reprimand. He did know better than to do something so stupid. He never would have gone anywhere near the car if he knew they had it without permission, but the guilt that is weighing on him heavily from abandoning his friend and disappointing his brother prevents him from admitting it. Saying it wouldn't change anything. He couldn't prove that he didn't know when the other three obviously had.

Sam's refusal to speak any further is grating on Dean's last nerve and he is thisclose to completely losing it. His ass is on the line now with their father too and he is not real happy about it. He grits his teeth in frustration knowing that he is going to do what he always does, and that is whatever it takes to minimize the fallout for his little brother. He's run interference for Sammy the kid's entire life and he is not about to stop now, especially since Dean is not a child anymore and there is little that John can do to him.

He runs his hand through his cropped hair and lets out a deep cleansing sigh before throwing the kid another glare. Sam is still determinedly keeping his jaw set, but Dean knows that the kid is probably drowning inside.

"You don't want to talk about it, fine. We'll get this all straightened out," he finally says, hoping that the words bring more comfort than they sound. "But this is the last time something like this happens, Sam. You're grounded indefinitely. Maybe in a couple of weeks you can have Brian come over to study if Dad says it's okay, but you aren't leaving the house."

These words slam into Sam like a tidal wave and he turns a furious stare over onto his brother. It's part vicious pang that Brian may not want to hang out with him anymore and part annoyance at Dean treating him like a child. He forgets his own actions of the evening and burns in a rage.

"You have no right to do that, Dean," he hisses. "You're not Dad, you know."

Dean's annoyance trumps Sam's. The kid just does not know when to quit while he his ahead. Dean knows that if he can persuade John that he handled the situation, there is a slim chance that his father won't murder his brother for his little foray into grand theft auto and he is trying to do him a kindness here.

"You're right, Sammy," he seethes, his teeth clenched. "If I _was_ Dad, you'd be bent over the hood of the car right now getting your butt whipped."

Dean holds Sam's stare until the boy finally turns away. His little brother knows that what he just said is entirely true. John has zero patience for this kind of defiance and he has never shrinked back from demonstrating it to either of his sons.

The rest of the trip home is completely silent and Dean finds himself wondering how long it's going to take for all of this to blow over and whether or not it will before he gives his little brother a serious beat down.

_________________

When they get back to the house, it is already late in the evening. Both of them are tired, cold and weary. Sam shuffles into the living room, carelessly tossing his backpack on the couch as he waits for his brother to come in behind him. He regrets the attitude that he gave Dean in the car and wants to clear the air a little.

It's just like it is with his father. Sam knows that he royally messed up this evening, but he just finds himself getting so angry at being treated like a child all the time by his father and brother that he lashes out. Mostly, it is John who bears the brunt of his angst. Sam is usually so wrapped up in being mad at his father that Dean is forever trying to make him feel better and Sam is ashamed of the way he has spoken to his brother tonight.

Dean stomps in behind him, his jaw still clenched and Sam winces slightly. He opens his mouth to break the ice, but his brother beats him to the punch.

"You heard what I said, Sam. Go to your room and get to bed. It's late and I have to work in the morning."

Dean had not meant to sound unkind, but he was just drop dead exhausted, truthfully tired of his little brother's crap, just wanting this whole night to be over already, and the words come out a bit more harsh than he had intended. Unfortunately, Sam does not know this and his own rollercoaster of emotions starts spinning wildly again.

"Screw you, Dean," he spits out, hurt. "Stop trying to tell me what to do!"

Sam had turned around and was holding a firm offensive stance, staring down his brother and Dean was more than a little taken aback by his reaction. His mouth is frozen open, like a fish sucking for water, wondering again what the hell just happened.

Sam mistakes the incredulous look on his brother's face for condescension and every teenage hackle in his body gets raised in fury. His voice is practically dripping in venom and Dean gets his first taste of the dark streak in his little brother that will wreak havoc upon them as adults years later.

"No matter how much you want to be, Dean, you are_ not Dad_!" Sam growls, his face ablaze. "You're just his obedient little soldier, so stop pretending that you are my father and stop telling me how to live my life!"

When the words are out of Sam's mouth, he immediately feels sick. It was as if someone else had taken over his body and spoken vile, unforgivable things, leaving him powerless to stop it. But he knows that it's not true. He's himself and he alone is responsible for putting that devastated look on his adored big brother's face.

Dean's face has gone almost completely white and the poison that has spilled from his kid brother's mouth has hit him harder than a kick to the gut. The critically low level of self esteem that he possesses has taken a mortal hit and he is finding it hard to breathe. He finds himself drowning in the memory of what it felt like to be on the receiving end of his father's looks after the Shtriga fiasco, Sammy looking uncomfortably similar to a young John Winchester.

Sam wants to say something, anything, to convince his brother how sorry he is, for everything that has gone on this terrible evening, but like a large cosmic joke, words spectacularly fail the boy that can always find something to say. He can't manage to do anything other than stare at the havoc of his brother's slumped posture as he struggles to catch a breath.

Dean has allowed himself several seconds of pain before he follows form and pushes it aside. He can't even look at his brother right now and, to prove it, he stomps up the stairs to his own room and slams the door shut with such force that the rickety windows in the kitchen rattle. Sam has watched him storm out, his heart dropping into his stomach, and when the door slams with such violent finality, he sinks to the couch and buries his face in his hands as he tries to breath.

_____________

The tension in the air the next morning is palpable and Sam is afraid to do or say anything that might aggravate the situation. He desperately wants to apologize, but the task is Herculean in size given the measure of the offense.

He is hurt, but honestly not surprised that Dean has not woken him up this morning with his usual hearty bang on the door and the cheery "_Rise and shine, Sammy_," that makes the boy groan and smile just a little bit. There is no wake up call this morning, despite the fact that it is well past the time that he and Dean should be taking their morning five mile run. Normally, Sam would whoop with joy over being excused from the early workout that he despises, but today it just emphasizes the gulf between his brother and himself.

Although he can hear Dean going about his morning routine, there is a disquieting absence of the goofy noises he usual makes. Since they were little, Dean is far too chipper in the morning for Sam's taste. Sam has not really slept at all during the night and he is more than wide awake when he hesitantly slinks down the stairs to the kitchen.

Things are off there too. Breakfast is usually just cereal or toast on a school day and, without fail like he has every day of Sam's life, Dean will set a place for his brother at the table, putting out the cereal box or the butter dish. This morning, as Sam spots the empty table, a sharp pain of hurt bursts in his chest and he sadly reminds himself that he has demanded that his brother stop treating him like a kid. So, be careful what you wish for, kiddo, because big boys get their own damn cereal.

Dean is standing at the counter with his back to Sam as he drinks one of several cups of morning coffee. Sam pads slowly over to the cabinet and pulls out the box of Lucky Charms, trying to catch a surreptitious glance at his brother's face. He wants so badly to talk to his brother.

"Dean..."

His brother doesn't even look at him, so Sam has no idea how much it hurts Dean to hear the sad little tone in his brother's voice. All Sam sees is his brother flinching slightly right before he dumps the rest of his coffee in the sink and head towards the front door.

"I'm leaving in five minutes, if you want a ride to school."

Sam sucks in a harsh gasp of air at the rebuff and he replaces the cereal box, any trace of appetite he might have possessed vanishing. Sullenly, he goes into the living room, hoists his backpack on his shoulder and heads out to the car to face the hostile atmosphere of the long drive to school.

Sam doesn't have the courage for another attempt at communication. Taking the coward's way out, he convinces himself that it would just be better to wait until after school to try to apologize. Dean enjoys the work he does at Bobby's and has, on more than one occasion, taking the opportunity to work out anger and frustration on the cars there. When Dean pulls into the school parking lot, Sam turns to his brother, wanting no more than to just give him a little smile, but Dean is staring straight ahead, his jaw firmly set and unyielding.

"I'll be back at three," Dean says, his tone empty and void of any emotion, and the smile on Sam's face slips completely off as he gathers his things.

"Okay. Thanks for the ride."

The words are hard for Sam to get out and with a heavy heart he slides out of the squeaky heavy door. He barely has the time to close it before Dean guns the engine and tears away at a speed that is much too fast for a school zone. Sam sadly watches him go before trudging towards the door, not looking forward to more fallout from the previous night's events.

___________________

As Dean speeds away from the school, his head throbs menacingly. He didn't sleep at all during the night, unable to breathe properly from the pain he is feeling. It has always been his way. Since he was a little boy charged with the responsibility of caring for Sam, he has sworn to never let his little brother see him weak. He has hidden a multitude of hurts and injuries from Sam over the years, physical and mental. He is finding it hard to accept that the overwhelming ache that is smothering him has been caused by the person he least expected it from.

From the moment he carried Sam out of the burning house, he has dedicated his life to caring for the boy. Their father never even really needed to tell him to do it. It was just an instinct ingrained into his every concious and subconcious thought. If he is honest with himself, he will admit that part of the job is to be overbearing at times out of necessity. Sam has truly inherited their father's determination to always do things his own way, regardless of who gets stepped on this process.

He hears Sam's accusations reverberating in his mind. _"You're not Dad, you know."_ Dean laughs humorlessly to himself.

_Yeah, that's right, Sammy. If I was Dad, your little ass would still be sitting in the police station, waiting for someone else to come and take care of you_.

He slams his hand on the wheel again in frustration and presses harder on the accelerator, making it to Bobby's in record time. Last night, he had decided on a course of action and he only has until three to set everything in motion.

* * *

School is just as difficult as Sam expected it to be. The town is small and everyone has already heard all of the gossip regarding the joyride. Amanda has made two attempts to talk to Sam, but he is just too furious to even look at her. As he expected, Brian is giving him the cold shoulder and is going out of his way to avoid him.

He hears gossip in the halls about Trevor's absence from classes and it doesn't take long to understand that this is not an isolated occurrence. His father is known to have a temper that he takes out on his son with his fists. Although Sam is still furious at him, he feels real sympathy for Trevor and gratitude that his own father, although strict, has never beaten him. In his resentment of John and their lifestyle, he sometimes forgets that there are kids who have it much worse and he feels an unexpected swell of emotion for his father and especially his brother.

When the last bell of the day finally rings, Sam practically jumps out of his chair and makes a beeline for the parking lot. He is relieved to see the Impala making the turn to pull in and releases a breath he doesn't realize he has been holding. He sprints to their usual meeting place, the familiar growling idle of the muscle car bringing a smile to his face. As he opens the passenger door, he vows to do whatever he can to make things right with his brother.

Without paying attention he slides into the leather bench seat, startled when his hip brushes against something. Looking down to his side, he is momentarily confused to see his duffle bag resting between him and Dean. He looks up at Dean and his brother shoots him a quick glance before returning his stare to the windshield. He watches his brother take a deep breath before putting the car in gear and pulling out of the lot.

"I talked to Dad this morning," Dean states without any preamble. "He's coming here tomorrow afternoon to go to court with you."

The statement, and the coldness in which it is delivered, stuns Sam. He doesn't know how to respond and, as it turns out, Dean is not waiting for him to do so.

"He's leaving the hunt in Des Moines as soon as I get there to replace him."

Sam's eyes flare in disbelief. John has been doing research in Des Moines in preparation for a suspected annual haunting of an old school. He has been holed up with Caleb for the past four days and the boy can't believe that his father would leave before the ghost makes its expected appearance. Even more disconcerting is the idea that John would allow Dean to take his place. Dean has never been allowed to go on a hunt by himself.

"You're staying with Bobby until he gets here."

So that's it then. Dean is now truly following in their father's footsteps. He's off on a hunt, and leaving Sam behind. The day that Sam has always feared would come is finally here and it feels like a kick to the head. As much as their father's absence has always hurt, angered and occasionally terrified Sam, there was always the comfort of his big brother's steadfast presence to keep him feeling secure. _Be careful what you wish for, kiddo._

"You're right, Sam," Dean mutters quietly, never looking at his little brother. "I'm not Dad."

_No. You're not. You're a better father than he is._

The unhappy thought drifts through Sam's mind and paralyzes him. The rest of the ride to Bobby's is silent, both boys lost in their own dark thoughts. When Dean pulls up to Bobby's house, they sit in the driveway for a minute, neither one of them knowing what to say. Dean keeps his stare straight ahead, knowing that if he turns and lets himself see the puppy dog eyes that Sam is surely sending over to him, his resolve will waiver and he will back down.

Another minute of uncomfortable silence and Dean can't take it anymore.

"I have to get going. Dad's waiting on me."

Sam begs with his eyes, but his brother isn't looking at him, refuses to acknowledge him. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he tries to make amends before it is too late and Dean is gone.

"Dean...please.."

The mournful tone in his little brother's voice and the slight hitch in his throat almost undoes Dean completely and it takes every ounce of strength he has in him to stop himself from pulling the kid into a hug. Sam has made his choice, defined his line in the sand. When the chips are really down, he just sees Dean as their father's puppet, nothing more. For years Dean has been deluding himself into thinking that they are closer than this and, as much as it hurts to admit, he has been wrong.

"Goodbye, Sam."

And that is the final nail in Sam's coffin. He hears his brother's flat voice and knows that he has destroyed their relationship. He's not Sammy anymore, he's Sam now. All of his life he has taken everything from Dean and finally his big brother has nothing left to give. And why should he, after what Sam has said to him? He grabs his bag from the seat and slowly exits the car, closing the door. He is hesitant to release the handle because he knows that when he does, his brother will be gone and there is no telling when he'll be back.

Dean doesn't wait for him though. He guns the engine and Sam has to jump back to avoid getting pelted with the rocks that the extra wide tires kick up as the Impala roars out of the salvage yard and back down the drive. Sam watches the car vanish, feeling dead inside and unable to move. He stands there motionless for several minutes until Bobby finally comes out to collect him.

_____________

John ambles along the cracked cement walkway between Caleb's room and his own at the Sleep-EZ Motor Lodge. From Dean's last phone call, he knows that his son will be arriving any minute and he wants to be waiting for him. Dean must be hauling ass as he is making the trip in less than four hours and John knows better than to think it is because his son is anxious to be on the hunt.

When Dean called him that morning and explained what had happened, John had lost his temper with his oldest and verbally flayed the boy alive for allowing such a thing to happen. Furthermore, he was entirely put out by Dean's insistence that John himself pack up and go to Sam's court appearance with him. But it didn't take long for John to catch the note of defeat in Dean's voice as the boy took full responsibility for Sam's actions and begged his father's forgiveness for failing him and John kicks himself for his earlier rebuke.

He knows first hand how difficult his youngest can be, knows how much he has failed his children himself time and again. Dean has unfairly been forced to grow up well before his time, almost unfailingly rising to the occasion without hesitation or complaint, and John admits that he has placed an unfair burden on his oldest son's shoulders. Something has gone horribly wrong between his boys and he knows that it is time for him to put aside the hunt for a minute and take care of his children.

The distinct rumble of the Impala's engine heralds his son's arrival and he rises from the battered sofa to open the door to his room. It takes just a few seconds for Dean to spot him and John guilty observes the hesitant and cautious way that his son approaches him. While it is true that he has always thought it best to instill a healthy sense of fear of himself into his sons in his bid to keep them obedient and, subsequently, safer, it has never been his intention to make them scared to death of coming to him. Watching Dean's blatant unease, he realizes that this is _exactly_ what he has done.

When his son is standing directly in front of him, John easily sees the dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and Dean's posture, usually as rigid as any Marine in formation when he is standing in his father's presence, is slumped in defeat. But most telling of all is the haunted look in the hazel green eyes that are the only physical characteristic that his oldest inherited from him. Once glance and John knows instantly that there is something decidedly broken in his son.

In a small gesture of affection to his son, John reaches out and cups the back of Dean's neck, his thumb almost imperceptibly gently rubbing just underneath his hairline. He's afraid to do anything more, knowing that Dean is not partial to physical affection, and any further attempt might result in the boy having a complete breakdown. He tugs Dean inside the room, releasing him to grab the neck of a bottle of El Sol, Dean's favorite beer. He pushes the bottle into his son's right hand and a thick folder of research on the haunting into the left.

Through this, neither have spoken a word, but as Dean sips the pale ale and peruses the file, he shoots his father several grateful looks. John is actually not the heartless bastard that many of his fellow hunters and, from time to time, his youngest son believes him to be. On occasion, he does have a sense of what his children truly need.

______________

Sam is lying on the small bed in Bobby's guest room trying to sleep. Even though he is teetering on the brink of exhaustion, he sees the hurt look on his brother's face every time he closes his eyes. It doesn't help that Bobby has ripped him a new one over his behavior and his ears are still ringing from it. It is Bobby who reminds Sam that John has probably laid the blame for the entire business at Dean's feet and Sam, knowing how much his brother values their father's approval, feels even lower than he already did.

Normally, the older hunter would never dream of interfering in other people's affairs, but this is different. Bobby is the only one who sees Dean's low self esteem, sees every day how the kid busts his ass to give his little brother the stability that he has been craving. While he is fond of both of the Winchester boys, it is Dean that he is partial to, giving the younger man the praise and recognition that John is stingy in handing out. Bobby loves Sam as well, but there are definitely times when he thinks the boy is getting a little too big for his britches and needs to be taken down a peg or two. Certainly his father and brother never do it.

Sam finally succumbs to sleep a little before two a.m. and the morning comes far too quickly for his taste. It's not going to be a good day.

________

It's just after six in the evening when John's truck pulls into Singer Salvage. He's left Dean with Caleb in Des Moines, confident that his son can handle his part in tonight's salt and burn. It has not escaped his notice that Dean is becoming just as capable of a hunter as John is himself, but old habits die hard and it is difficult to let go of his grip on his eldest child. What's more, John could easily see that the hunt is something Dean needs to be doing right now.

Bobby answers the door when he knocks and the two exchange quick perfunctory pleasantries. It's hard to tell that they are actually friends from looking at their body language, but there is no doubt that they are. They just don't always care too much for each other at times. Bobby is one of the few hunters who has never actually come out and accused John of bad parenting. It's the only thing that has salvaged their friendship over the years. John has already had more than one "falling out" with a fellow hunter who has questioned the necessity of raising his boys on the hunt. He doesn't take kindly to interference.

Sam is standing nervously by the couch, biting his lower lip when his father comes into the room.

"Let's go, Samuel," John commands, his words stern and unyielding.

Sam immediately obeys, grabbing his backpack and hurrying over to where his father is standing. He has no desire to infuriate John more than he has already by giving him any attitude. John jerks his chin in Bobby's direction and stares at his son meaningfully.

"What do you say?" he demands and Sam blushes at the prompt.

"Thank you for letting me stay over last night, Uncle Bobby," he replies as politely as he can. He knows what is expected of him. Good manners have been drummed into their heads since they were old enough to speak.

Bobby watches them uneasily as John snags Sam by the back of the boy's jacket and roughly pushes him towards the door. He knows that John would never do anything to really hurt either of his boys, but he knows that Sam is in for it when his father gets him alone. He reminds himself of the mental beating that Dean took from his little brother and he keeps his mouth shut as he watches them leave.

"Thanks for keeping an eye on him, Bobby," John mutters. His words are quiet and gruff, but they are genuine and Bobby knows this. Bobby's not a religious man, but he's praying that everything will work out for the little family.

____________

Strapped into the passenger seat of his father's big black truck, Sam keeps his eyes glued to the floor as John yells. Sam doesn't actually have to pay attention to the words to know what his father is saying. He knows perfectly well how many Winchester family rules he has smashed and, for once, his father's chastisement doesn't inspire him to go on the offensive. He's too broken up about what he has done to his relationship with his brother to care about anything else.

For his part, John unloads his irritation on his youngest until he realizes that Sam is already cowed to the point of not feeling anymore. He's been expecting the usual fight that comes from his son and it never materializes. Instead, Sam has kept his head down, inserting the appropriate _'yes sirs'_ and _'no sirs'_ where required and quietly apologizing repeatedly. He wonders if Sam is really that nervous over his court appearance and lets it go. There will be time later to deal with it.

They arrive at the small town court twenty minutes ahead of schedule and join the other parties already sitting in the folding chairs in front of the table that John assumes the town justice uses as his bench. Dean has explained the situation to him in detail and John scans the room out of habit to try and get a feel for the other people present. Easily he finds the arrogant looking man in an expensive suit that is too rich for a small town like this one and knows that this is Reynolds. His son is right. Reynolds is obviously a big dick.

It's not the way that the other groups of parents are looking at him fearfully. It's obvious that this guy has a habit of intimidating people. It's the fact that a boy, who looks like he is Sammy's age and is most likely Trevor, is sitting skittishly next to the pompous air bag and is sporting a rather horrible looking shiner. He feels his lip curl in anger and has to resist the urge to go over to Reynolds and give the man a black eye of his own.

Not that John is squeamish about handing out punishment to his sons. In fact, he is fully planning on tanning Sam's behind when they get back to the house, but Hell would freeze over before he struck one of his children in the brutal manner in which Reynolds has hurt his son. John has seen his kind before on too many occasions. Not all evil is supernatural in nature and he swears under his breath, more than half contemplating the idea of sticking around in town for a while to see what Reynolds is truly capable of.

He catches Reynolds glaring at him and his face contorts into the scarily calm mask that he wears while in the field. By virtue of necessity, John's immersion into a world of real evil has changed him into something to be feared by things far more powerful and deadly than human beings. It is this experience and confidence that is conveyed in the steely harshness of his eyes. Reynolds can see this. He can tell immediately that John is not a man to mess around with and averts his gaze quickly, making John smirk in response.

The hearing goes about as well as John expects. The town justice is another smug bastard who is clearly friends with Reynolds. He allows the pompous man to strut and posture for a while, the parents of the other two kids involved obviously unnerved by his show. Finally, the kids are called up to the makeshift bench in turn with their parents. Sam is called second and John pushes his boy to his feet as they approach.

Sam knows what is expected of him and he speaks and reacts properly, throwing himself at the court's mercy. John swallows the bile rising in his throat and assures the justice that his son has learned his lesson and that they are willing to pay their share of the damages. After an unusually long minute of contemplation in John's opinion, the judge offers a condescending lecture before releasing Sam and directs them over to the court clerk for payment. When John pulls out his wallet to pay, the clerk informs them that Dean had made the payment the previous afternoon and the disclosure proves to be too much for Sam to handle. He bolts out the door and into the truck.

_________________

John threads his belt back through the loops of his jeans as he watches his son sleep fitfully. If he wasn't feeling helpless about the situation between his boys before, he definitely is now.

Sam didn't utter a word on the drive back to the house and John almost decided that the kid had had enough for one day. But his sons have had very little consistency in their lives and discipline is one of them. Sam knows what to expect from his father for his behavior and John feels compelled to follow through. He can't afford to have either of his boys question his authority and Sam already has a bad tendency towards it.

He was surprised when Sam went to his room without argument, even though they both knew why he was being sent there. When John followed him up there a few minutes later, his belt folded up in his hand, he was expecting the normal fight that had become a part of the routine since Sammy was thirteen and began standing up to his father. But this time, it was different. Sam didn't utter a word of protest as he obligingly bent over the edge his bed, his hands grabbing large bunches of the dark blue comforter.

Then everything had just gone to hell.

John had only doled out a half dozen swats when Sam burst into sobs and sank to his knees on the floor, his head buried in the blanket. John froze immediately, completely unprepared for the reaction. Sam was certainly more emotional than his brother and was not adverse to wearing his heart on his sleeve, but he was cold stoic during punishment, never letting out a sound. The tears would always come later when he had calmed down and sought John out for reconciliation.

Watching his almost grown son sob like a child on the floor of his bedroom, John knew immediately that the tears were not from the belt that he cast aside on the bed. At that moment, John knew that something was broken in both of his children and, for the first time in a long time, he had felt helpless. All he could do was drop to his knees next to his son and try to comfort him as best as he could. Mirroring the same gesture he had made towards Dean, John had begun to gently rub the back of Sam's neck in an attempt to soothe his boy.

It took a while, almost twenty minutes, before Sam started to relax. When he did, John was not ready for it. As if a light had been switched on, Sam began to ramble, spitting out every bit of what had happened during the past forty eight hours in vivid and emotional detail. When he was finally spent, John had a crystal clear picture of just what had occurred between his boys and he now knew exactly why his oldest looked like a bombing victim. In true form, he acknowledged to himself that he is more than partially responsible for this mess as well.

Eventually, he had coaxed Sam back onto the bed and encouraged him to try and get some much needed sleep. Feeling emmense sadness, he had watched over his achingly young looking son, until Sam's breath had evened out. At this point, John is smart enough to realize that what both of his boys need is each other.

As he makes his way downstairs and into the kitchen, he pulls his cellphone out and dials.

______________

Dean is feeling good for the first time in days as he helps Caleb pack up his truck.

An hour ago, the ghost of Lara Sue Mosley appeared just as she always did on the anniversary of the fall formal dance where she was murdered. Dean, dressed nattily in a rented tux and bearing an orchid corsage, had flirted and flattered her into revealing the location of her corpse. Hearing the information on the two way radio, Caleb had raced over to the rotting goal post in the overgrown football field behind the school. He manages to dig up the bones and salt and burn them before Lara Sue gets the chance to rip Dean's heart out.

Dean manages to slip out of the monkey suit and pull on his own comfortable jeans and tee just before his phone rings. His good mood abruptly vanishes when he sees his father's number come up and he answers it in a panic.

"Dad?"

"Come home, son."

_________________

Dean has raced back to Sioux Falls as if Lucifer himself was giving chase, the tone in his father's summons scaring the crap out of him. Although John has assured him that Sam is safe in his room back at the house and in no physical danger, he also said that Sam needs him, _truly needs him_, and Dean wastes no time getting back.

He pulls into the little driveway, parking behind his father's truck and practically jumps from the car and bolts through the front door. John is sitting on the sofa in the living room, the bottle of Jose Cuervo that Dean has stocked for his father open on the coffee table in front of him. His father looks bone tired as he nurses the tumbler in his hand.

"Sit down, son. We need to talk."

__________

Fifteen tense minutes later, Dean climbs the stairs and walks over to Sam's room, gently rapping on the door before entering. The room is dark, but he can make out the faint outline of his brother on the bed. Sam is lying with his back to the door and Dean slowly makes his way over, sitting on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight and alerting Sam to the fact that there is someone next to him.

Sam doesn't turn around, thinking that it is John come to check on him. He's embarrassed by his earlier outburst, knowing how his father feels about overt displays of emotion. He keeps his eyes shut in the hope that his father will just assume that he is still sleeping and leave. He is completely unprepared for the voice he hears.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean says softly and the sound of his brother's voice makes Sam's breathing hitch.

Sam spins around in surprise and sees the gentle familiar look on his big brother's face, the look that tells him that things may be okay after all. He sits up abruptly against the headboard and winces slightly from the dull ache on his butt. Dean gives him a sympathetic smile and the affection in his eyes starts to soothe the pain in Sam's chest.

"You okay, kiddo?" Dean teases, a small smirking playing around the corners of his mouth. "The old man wasn't too hard on you, was he?"

Sam shakes his head slightly, still somewhat dazed to see his brother sitting there smiling at him. Dean holds his smile long enough to convince Sam that everything is alright and, before he knows it, he finds himself with an armful of little brother as Sam ducks his head into Dean's shoulder. Dean feels his little brother shaking and he puts extra exertion into the hold he has around Sam's shoulders.

They don't speak for several minutes until the unaccustomed closeness starts to make Dean feel uncomfortable. Not that he minds embracing his brother, especially after everything that has happened, but he is dangerously close to breaking down himself and his continuing need to keep strong in front of the kid eventually forces him to gently push Sam away.

Dean takes a long hard look at his little brother. Notices the pale face and the dark circles around his eyes. Sam's left eye is twitching slightly and Dean knows this is because his brother hasn't eaten enough lately. Sam's eye always twitches when he is overly hungry.

"Hey, when was the last time you ate, kiddo? You look like hell."

Sam doesn't respond to the question. He is still looking at Dean like little boy lost and the older brother can't take it anymore. Dean gets up from the bed and starts to head towards the door.

"I'm starving," he announces in his usual forward manner. "I'll tell you what. I'm going to go make some dinner for both of us and I'll tell you all about the ghost bitch we iced tonight."

Sam blinks rapidly, seeing yet another chance to apologize to his brother slipping from him, and he opens his mouth to speak only to be silenced by Dean holding his hand up in protest.

"Don't, Sammy," he says quietly, recognizing the look on Sam's face. "It's over. Everything's okay. I swear."

Sam recognizes his brother's unwillingness to discuss the tempest of emotions between them and nods briefly, just grateful for his forgiveness. Dean nods back at him and for the first time in days, both brothers feel the tension slip away.

"And make up with Dad, okay? You know how wrecked the old man gets when he has to kick your ass," Dean says over his shoulder as he leaves Sam's room.

_______________

When Sam quietly makes his way down into the living room, he sees his father sitting on the sofa in front of the old television, the telltale bottle of Jose a third empty on the coffee table. For all of John's fuss and bluster, both of his boys knows that it pains him to come down hard on either one of them, the guilt usually being harder on them than whatever punishment he has administered.

As he has done since the Christmas he was eight years old in Broken Bow, Sam shuffles forward towards the sofa and lays down on it, tucking his long legs up on the end and resting his head in his father's lap. John doesn't say anything, but there is an audible sigh of relief as he begins to card his fingers through Sam's dark hair while they watch some nonsense on TV. Dean sees them from the kitchen and he begins to hum _Ramblin' On_ contentedly as he flips the grilled cheese sandwiches he has on the stove, a genuine smile of happiness on his face.

All is back to normal.

____________

On Thanksgiving Day, John surprises both of his sons by not being as hopeless in the kitchen as they have previously suspected him to be. He is only a little out practice and proves this by helping Dean stuff the twenty pound turkey and get it into the oven. It is a strangely comfortable time in the little household as all three Winchesters work together to prepare the meal.

No Boston Market this year.

The sounds of the Macy's parade are coming from the television in the living room as they go about their various tasks. Sam is sitting at the table putting together the tissue paper turkeys that Dean picked up from the dollar store for decoration. Dean is trying not to choke on the bile in his throat as he assembles the green bean casserole that his little brother has assured him he will eat, and John is peeling several pounds of potatoes with a dizzying speed that impresses his boys as they watch the skins fly off.

A knock on the door heralds Bobby's arrival carrying a pumpkin pie in one hand and an apple pie in the other. Three disbelieving stares has the older man on the offensive as he informs them curtly that _yes, they are homemade_, and the glare on his face dares one of them to make something of it. When John gets a mental image of the grizzled hunter baking in a ruffled apron, he lets out a full belly laugh that his boys have never heard from their father before.

Finally, the meal is put on the table, looking every bit traditional and smelling much better than Sam had imagined that it could. He looks to his father and sees, for the first time, John's eyes soft and relaxed as he carves the turkey with precision. He looks to Dean and grins as he watches his good natured brother mock gag on a forkful of green beans.

He knows what he is truly thankful for.


	4. December

For the past three hours, Dean has been tinkering with the motor for the second hand snow blower he bought off of their next door neighbor. Wrist deep in grease and surrounded by a semi-circle of worn parts, he begins to wonder if he should just chuck the whole thing in the rubbish bin and shovel by hand. But the very real concern over how many hours of his life would be spent clearing the four steps to the house, the drive-way, the short path to the sidewalk and, of course, the sidewalk itself, prods him to continue.

Let's face it. They live in freakin' _South Dakota_. It's _December_.

Enough said.

The various parts are laid out on the coffee table in the living room, mocking him with their stubborn refusal to cooperate in any way. He doesn't understand it. He can put entire cars together from scratch, but a little POS snow blower is driving him out of his mind. He takes another sip of beer, grits his teeth, pushes his sleeves up above his elbows and dives back in.

He absolutely _refuses_ to let the stupid thing get the better of him.

In the kitchen, Sam is standing at the sink finishing the dinner dishes. Dean pauses a minute to smirk at the royal blue latex gloves on his brother's hands as he pulls plates from the rinse water and slots them in the dish drainer. When Dean had assigned dishwashing as one of Sam's chores, his little brother had insisted on buying the gloves in blue instead of the more common blinding lemon yellow, as if that little color distinction would make the fact that he is wearing them in the first place any less girly.

A slightly snarky comment of "_Watch out for your manicure, Princess_," had been received less than enthusiastically.

The sink is on the far wall of the kitchen, meaning that Sam has his back to his brother in the next room, but Dean knows the kid well enough to correctly guess that the boy is wearing his bitch face. The low volumed grumbling assures it, even before he hears the distinctive splash of water that heralds the second attempt to scrub the pot that Dean burned the pasta in.

"Temper, temper, Sammy boy," he teases, taking his mind off of the frustration of being bested by a baby motor by poking the bear that is his broody sibling. He is rewarded with the expected _'bite me' _and snorts in amusement.

"And, language," he adds for good measure, ducking as Sam, with lightening speed and Winchester ingrained accuracy, whips a soddened towel at him. He balls up the towel and flings it back towards the counter where it splats next to the sink, never touching his brother.

Sam's formerly irritated hazel eyes relax and a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, recognizing the distraction for what it was. He turns back around and resumes the gooey task, a quietly uttered '_jerk_' under his breath that is not so silent that it doesn't prompt its verbal twin '_bitch_' from the other room.

He and Dean have fallen back into their comfortable banter with an easiness that belies all of the hurt and harsh words that had been between them a few weeks ago. Sam is truly so grateful that he sometimes has trouble breathing.

It's not the first time he has been the recipient of Dean's unconditional forgiveness. They are brothers after all, and even brothers that are as close as the two of them are bound to fight occasionally. Especially as Sam has inherited more than just his hair color and dimples from their father. He possesses John's temper in spades and also his father's determination to dig in his heels when he thinks he is right.

But, time and again, Dean's fierce love for the two most important people in his life wins out, no matter how much they lash out at him or drag him into the middle of their own private family war. Sam has experienced this time and again, but that last fight is the first time that _he_ has put the devastated look on his brother's face that has made him so angry at their father for doing so in the past.

That realization just crushes him and he wonders if he would have been so capable of forgiveness if the tables had been turned. Then he chides himself, knowing as well as he knows his own face that the tables would not ever be turned.

His big brother would never treat _him_ so callously.

Sam turns around slightly and sneaks a glance into the living room. Dean is quietly sitting on the couch, the guts of the prehistoric mechanical beast still splayed out in every direction. But his brother's face is calm and his eyes are dancing with humor, as if enjoying a private joke. With a surgeon's precision, he picks through the little pieces of metal arranged on the drop cloth, his left knee bopping along in tune with whatever classic rock song is playing in his head at the moment.

Sam lets a little chuckle escape and Dean's mouth smirks a bit more as he reaches for another screwdriver. He doesn't turn his head to meet Sam's stare. Just sits there and tinkers and the younger boy doesn't realize how long he has been watching until Dean speaks.

"That's right, Sammy. Drink in the awesomeness that is me," he snickers cockily, and Sam knows that he is being teased again. He blushes a little at getting caught gawking and is thankfully saved by the tinny ring of the wall hung phone.

***

Dean laughs to himself, having just busted his little brother for the peeping tom act. Not that he minds, really. It's been a long long time since Sammy looked at him like that.

When he was only a tiny thing, Sam watched him with that intense big-eyed wonder, as if Dean was his own personal superhero. Dean remembers the days of strutting around like a peacock, his own little chest puffed out proudly, as his baby brother hung on his every word and gesture. At one point, Dean could have told the little boy that he could lasso the moon for him, and Sammy would have believed him.

But those days were far gone. Dean had lost his hero status right around the same time that Sam had lost his faith in their father.

If he is honest with himself, he would have to admit how much he is still hurt by the words that his little brother threw at him during that whole debacle last month. But, he has never been particularly honest with anyone except for their father, and then with Sam once the cat was out of the bag about what John really did during his near constant "business trips". He certainly has never extended the same courtesy with himself.

Especially when life in denial is so much less painful.

So he has fallen back into the comfort of light bantering and teasing with his rapidly growing sibling. His easy acquiescence provides the necessary fuel to keep their relationship humming along smoothly.

He knows that Sammy is sorry, truly sorry for what he said. The kid had been walking on eggshells around him for weeks, taking extra pains to be helpful around the house, never complaining about Dad's training schedule or extra studies. Most of all, he had been practically tripping over his canoe-sized feet to show appreciation for anything that Dean did for him.

It's clearly overcompensation and they both know it. Dean just wonders if the remorse stems from his brother feeling bad about hurting him or more because a kink in their relationship threatens the borderline "normal" life that they have created here.

He doesn't allow himself to ponder on that particular distinction for very long.

It wouldn't matter anyway in the end. Regardless of any verbal daggers that Sam has thrown at him, Dean would never think to unbalance the carefully crafted life that he has created for them for these precious few months. He made his little brother a promise and, where his family is concerned, Dean always keeps his promises.

Tonight's light hearted volley has lifted some of the ache from his chest, his smile, as he fiddles with the motor, is genuine. When the phone rings, his heart stops for just a fraction of a second as it always does with incoming calls. Holding his breath, he hopes that their father is not in trouble somewhere while Dean sits in the warm living room playing happy family.

Only a handful of people have their landline number and most of them are not the kind to call just to shoot the breeze. So he watches as Sammy grabs the handset from the wall and answers it, trying not to detect the minuscule lilt of breathy fear that has also inserted itself in his brother's greeting.

"Hello?"

When he watches Sam become decidedly uncomfortable, he jumps to his feet, but then the kid scowls at him and waves him off, pointing at his own chest to let Dean know that the call is for him and it is not any sort of fresh hell that their damaged family will have to manage.

Dean raises an eyebrow, curious as to the identification of the party on the other end of the line, and hopes that maybe it is Brian. Although things have thawed enough between his little brother and his formerly closest friend to the point that he has wheedled out of Sammy that they are at least speaking again, Sam still has not brought the other boy home to resume their previous study sessions. Nor has he asked to be allowed to go over there.

"Hey Alex. What's up?"

_Alex_?

To the best of Dean's knowledge, they don't know an Alex. No hunter goes by that name and it's not as if they have any third cousins running around to touch base with. He mentally runs the list of boys in Sam's class and falls short there as well.

Curiouser and curiouser.

It's not that Dean is opposed to giving the little twerp any privacy. Hell, he wouldn't have wanted anyone breathing down _his_ neck at that age. He just doesn't like any unknown quantities in their inner circle. He's always made it a point to know who Sam associates with and, with Dad's mandate on the terms of their stay here, Dean is taking that responsibility even more seriously than usual.

But he decides not to press the issue just yet. There will be time to grill Sam after the call and, stubborn or not, he _will _talk. Dean sits back down and resumes his tinkering, keeping one ear on the side of the conversation that he can hear. He is already picking through proven methods of interrogating his little brother.

Sam has a particularly sensitive tickle spot below his left ribs and he folds like a cheap suit when big brother unleashes the spider fingers.

"Yeah, I heard about it. I..uh..don't think I'll be able to."

Pause.

"No. I..um..I can't. I...uh..have extra AP study sessions then."

Dean throws his brother a quick glance. Sam smolders from the undue amount of eavesdropping and turns slightly, putting his back to his brother even as he starts to wrap himself in the extra long coiled phone cord. Watching the kid's tense bristling, Dean frowns, hoping that whoever this Alex is, they aren't trying to get Sam involved in something dangerous.

A routine interest in his little brother's affairs ratchets itself up a notch and now Dean is determined to get to the bottom of the conversation. Sam doesn't respond well to a machete approach to information gathering, so he plays it cool, leaning back into the couch cushion and casually sipping at his beer.

"Yeah, okay. See you later."

Sam unwinds himself from the phone cord and hangs up, moving back to the sink with a little more speed and determination than he normally exhibits towards finishing his chores. He picks up the discarded Brillo pad and starts to scrub at the burnt pot with a vengeance. Dean stares at him for a second and then downs the rest of the beer. He gets up from the couch and strolls into the kitchen, discarding the empty bottle into the paper carrier on the floor by the trashcan.

Sam works over the pot as if he has never seen anything so interesting, pointedly ignoring his brother standing two feet away from him as Dean opens the refrigerator door and peers inside as if he has all the time in the world.

_Scrub Scrub Scrub_

"Remind me to pick up eggs tomorrow. We're almost out," Dean says casually as he rifles through the shelves. A short grunt from Sam is the only acknowledgement he gets, the frenzied scraping of the steel wool against metal grating on his nerves. He pulls out another beer and closes the door, twisting the cap off and turning to lean back against the countertop as he takes a sip.

_Scrub Scrub Scrub_

"So, who's Alex?"

A pause, lasting just a fraction of a second, betrays Sam's unease over the question, but he pushes past it and renews his efforts with a vengeance.

_Scrub Scrub Scrub_

"Just someone from school."

Dean frowns and shakes his head slightly at the vague answer. Sammy is acting far too nervous over the call for it to have been anything that innocent.

"What did he want?"

Sam turns towards him and scowls. "None of your business, Dean," he snaps. At Dean's withering glare, he backs down and returns to the pot. Patience wearing thin, Dean waits another half a minute before pushing the issue.

"Sam," he growls in the voice that their father uses and which leaves no room for debate.

His little brother huffs, clearly annoyed that he has to explain himself, and Dean silently concedes that his father is right in that they have allowed Sam to become a little spoiled. At this point in the conversation with John, Dean would be spilling his guts about every detail of the phone conversation as well as confessing to the size of the porno stash underneath his bed.

Sam's teenager pride demands that he posture a bit more before caving, and he does so until the glare in his big brother's eyes threatens to blind him. He throws the pot back in the sink and crosses him arms, his whole body bristling with attitude.

"The theatre club at my school is doing a winter production of 'Our Town'. Alex called to ask me if I was going to try out for a part."

Dean raises an eyebrow in surprise. It's such an innocent vanilla answer that he can't help wondering if there is more than Sam is letting on about. A more discomforting question is whether or not the kid is flat out lying to him.

"That's it?" he asks incredulously and Sam sighs, still affronted, and nods.

Not persuaded, Dean channels John and fixes Sam with a stern look, crossing his own arms and showing his kid brother that he means business.

"So, if I were to go into the school tomorrow, I could ask that cute blond secretary and she would tell me all about this play, right?"

Sam throws him a scowl, his hazel eyes wide and flashing with anger. He rips off the ridiculous gloves and hurls them to the floor before stomping out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Above his head, Dean can hear the kid banging down the hallway and into his room. He is about to follow and verbally flay the little bitch for running off on him when he realizes that there is an absence of Sammy's trademark door slamming. So he waits.

A minute later, the stomping returns in full force and Sam bangs down the stairs, the ancient boards underneath his feet groaning under the abuse. The boy's face is flushed a deep red and he is oozing hostility out of every pore as he thrusts a lime green sheet of paper into Dean's chest before resuming his crossed arm stance.

Dean grabs the crushed paper and smooths out the wrinkles as he reads. Sure enough it is an announcement of the play and he skims through the information, his eyes resting on the words listing an Alex Logan as the assistant casting director. He feels slightly guilty for having doubted his brother's honesty, but he is still not convinced that he has been told the whole story. Sam's tension and mannerisms are clearly hiding something.

"Okaaaay. So, is this something that you want to do?" he asks, really because he has no other idea as to what he should say here.

"No," Sam snaps, a little too quickly, before turning around and bending to pick up his gloves from the floor. He puts them back on and returns to the sink to finish cleaning the pot. Dean frowns and clears his throat, wondering what it is that has his brother so on edge about a stupid school play.

"C'mon, Sam. All you little geek boys like putting on costumes and running around," he teases, trying to break the tension in the room. "It could be fun. Why don't you think about it?"

Sam's shoulders stiffen as he puts the pot in the dish rack and pulls the plug out of the drain, watching the soapy water whirl around as it empties. He is quiet as he grabs a sponge and mops out the sink before pulling his gloves off and staring out the window in front of him into the darkness of the winter night.

"Sam?" Dean's voice is quiet, concerned.

Sam lets out a heavy breath, his lips pursed into the scowl that has become his regular face when he is around his father. "Forget it," he spits out. "Besides, aren't I _grounded_ _indefinitely_?"

The last words are accompanied by a sneer and Dean is stung by the harshness of them. He regrets having said that. It wasn't exactly the message he was trying to convey at the time, his worry and concern over his brother's safety forefront in his mind.

"Sammy, you know I didn't mean it like that," he answers defensively. "I was just tired and upset that night. You can do this play thing if you want to."

His little brother snorts and stares at the floor like he was hoping to be swallowed up by it. "Yeah, sure you didn't," he snaps back and Dean feels like he's been slapped. "And even if you didn't mean it, Dad did."

Dean's head shoots up and frowns in confusion. "Dad? When did he tell you that?" This piece of information is news to Dean and he wonders why neither of them have mentioned it to him.

"When he picked me up for court that day. He told me that I couldn't leave the house without you for the rest of the school year."

There is a monumental amount of bitterness in the boy's voice as he says this, and Dean is more than a little pissed off. He wonders how much of Sam's quiet behavior since then has been attributed to their father's mandate and knows that it has probably left the poor kid feeling like a trapped animal. He fumes, knowing that if John is not careful, Sam will choke on the leash around his neck and struggle that much harder to escape them both.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean utters quietly, reaching out squeeze his brother's shoulder. "I didn't know."

Sam recognizes the honesty in his brother's tone and words and finally lifts his head up, peeking out at Dean from underneath his shaggy fringe of hair.

"It's okay. It doesn't matter."

Dean grabs his other shoulder and gives the kid a little shake. "Hey. It does matter, Sam. If you want to do this, I'll square it with Dad. Don't worry about it."

Sam just shakes his head sadly, a rueful smile on his face. "Yeah, sure." He pulls away from his brother's grasp. "I'm not interested, so you don't have to bother." After another few seconds of silence, Sam turns away from his brother's probing stare. "Can I go now? I have homework."

Dean nods and watches as the boy shuffles out of the room. There is more going on here, and he is going to find out what the whole story is. He grabs his beer from the counter and downs it, sad that the comfortable mood of earlier in the evening has just been shattered with one stupid phone call.

***

Trekking through the foot deep snow in below zero weather, Dean is glad that his earlier insistence on getting Sam new boots and a warmer coat has been justified. Their father usually insisted on clothes and boots designed more for speed and movement than practicality or warmth. The heavy parka that his little brother is wrapped up in would be a hindrance if he was fighting off a Wendigo, but for today's excursion, it is perfect.

They plod along amidst the rows of trees and cheerful little groups of families as Dean leads them further on. He is smiling and gripping the ax in his hand like a child with a shiny new toy, ignoring the broody sulk of the boy dragging behind him. They trudge on for a few more minutes until Dean stops short in front of his quarry, his whole face beaming.

"What do you think of this one, Sammy?"

The boy shrugs, his attention off somewhere in the distance, clearly not interested in participating. Dean frowns, the ax now hanging limply in his hand. He wants to reach out and smack his little brother in the head for being such a killjoy, but he reins in his temper, reminding himself that picking out a Christmas tree is supposed to be _fun_.

"C'mon, Sam. Don't be like that. Do you like this one or not? We could keep on looking."

Sam shrugs again, thinking that he would rather be back at the house studying for his calculus test. It's not that he doesn't appreciate his brother's attempt to inject some Christmas cheer into their little household, but ever since that miserable time in Broken Bow when their family was practically ripped apart, he has nothing but bad memories of the holiday and would prefer to just let it pass by. This year, Dean seems hell bent for leather on celebrating and, while he appreciates his brother's efforts, he would just rather not bother.

Dean just shakes his head, already a little worn down by Sam's attitude. It was like pulling teeth to get the kid into Bobby's truck this morning to make this trip and his surly sibling barely said a word during the entire ride out. Determined to not let cranky pants spoil the day, he pulls on his work gloves and starts to hack away at the tree trunk.

Ten minutes later, he has felled the chubby green bush. He grabs it by the trunk and throws a glare over to Sam. The boy pisses and moans, but he grabs the top and helps Dean drag it out to the entrance where Dean pays. In disgruntled silence, they tie it in the back of the battered pick up and climb back in for the drive home. For a few minutes, Dean tries to keep up a friendly conversation, but after no reasonable replies, he drops it, more than a little annoyed.

Once they reach the house, Sam grudgingly helps to unload it and drag it into the living room. Together they wrestle it into the squeaky rusted stand that Bobby loaned them. Bobby has also provided a box of dusty ornaments and lights. Sam doesn't ask where they came from. He doesn't really care. Dean does, though. He knows without asking that they come from a time when Bobby had a wife to decorate a tree with. The old hunter doesn't mention this when pressing the box into his hands, but Dean understands just how much of a sacrifice it is for him to do it.

When the tree is finally stable in the stand, Sam tries to dart for the stairs, but his brother stops him.

"Sammy, wait. Don't you want to decorate it?"

Sam scowls, wanting nothing more than to go up to the sanctuary of his room and bury himself in his textbooks, turns around to tell Dean just that. But Dean's eyes are hopeful and Sam feels ashamed of himself. His brother asks so little of him and the least he can do is hang ornaments for an hour if it makes him happy. He pastes a forced smile on his face and reaches into the box and starts to untangle the old lights. It's worth the effort when Dean grins from ear to ear and darts off into the kitchen.

When he returns, he's carrying two mugs and a plate of Sam's favorite sugar cookies. He puts them down on the coffee table and then crosses the room to where their portable CD player is plugged into the wall. He presses 'play' and smiles when the notes of _'All I Want' _start playing. Sam doesn't pay any attention until he picks up on the familiarity of the voice and frowns in confusion.

"Styx?"

Dean is now grinning like a Cheshire cat as he holds up the case identifying the CD as _'A Classic Rock Christmas' _and the sight finally breaks down Sam's obstinacy and he laughs. Only his brother would be able to procure something like that. In a more charitable mood, Sam takes the mug of eggnog that Dean offers him and sips. The unexpected fire of spiced rum chokes him for a second and he sputters much to his brother's amusement.

"Easy kiddo," Dean teases as he drinks from his own mug.

Sam blushes and suddenly his face is all little boy grins and innocence again. Once in a blue moon, after a job well done on a hunt, John will let Sam have a beer, but he has never been allowed to try hard alcohol.

"Dude, Dad would freak if he knew you let me have this," Sam laughs in the same conspiratorial way he would when they were much younger and Dean had snuck him a forbidden treat.

Dean just smiles at him, happy that his brother is finally happy. There isn't even a full shot of the rum in Sammy's mug, but it doesn't matter. He's the cool big brother again. The one that spoils him and runs interference with their father. Not the one that helps John keep him in captivity, regardless of the protective motivation behind the method.

They munch on the cookies and hang the slightly faded glass balls, talking easily about nothing in particular as the festive music plays in the background. When the tree is lit, Sam tries to coax another spiked drink out of his big brother but is shot down quickly. He doesn't complain, especially when Dean refills both mugs with virgin nog. Dean lets him order out for pizza and, as they eat, his big brother gives him his full attention while Sam enthusiastically rambles on about his upcoming AP classes.

By the time Sam heads up for bed, they are both in a peaceful happy mood, evidenced by Sam shoving Dean's shoulder affectionately as he heads for the stairs. Watching his brother's retreating figure, Dean's smile falters as little as he hopes that this is the year he can give Christmas back to his little brother.

****

You're pronouncing that all wrong, you know."

Sam looks up from his Latin book to glare at his brother. Dean is sitting on top of one of the washers they are using and reading _Guns and Ammo_.

"You can't even _read_ it, Dean," Sam replies testily, reminding his brother of one of his few failings as a hunter. "How do you know I'm saying it wrong?"

Dean glances up from his magazine and cocks an eyebrow, giving Sam a no-nonsense stare.

"I can read the words just fine, smartass," Dean snaps back. "What's more important, I can speak it correctly. An exorcism isn't going to work if you put the emphasis on the wrong syllabel of a word."

He pauses to let his reprimand sink it, which it does when Sam scowls and buries his head back into the book.

"Try again."

Sam takes a deep breath, willing himself to keep his temper in check and refrain from popping his brother in the mouth. Because the laundromat is empty, they have taken the opportunity to practice Sam's Latin linguistic skills. Their father is coming into town tomorrow and he will be expecting Sam to have completed the study assignment that was set for him last weekend when they were together on a job. Sam would rather just work on his physics homework.

At his brother's insistent prodding, Sam picks the rite up again and struggles through the first few passages while Dean listens. He is halfway through when the glass door swings open and a girl's voice calls out to him.

"Hey, Sam!"

The classical language's words stick in his throat and he drops the book like it was on fire, scrunching his eyes up in discomfort as his face flushes a bright red.

_Damn_

The girl's greeting has caught Dean's attention and he watches her bounce in and approach his visibly rattled brother. She's cute, in a wholesome, book smart sort of way. Her wavy brown hair is pulled back in a floppy ponytail that seems to work well with her face and she has enormous ice blue eyes that give Sam's puppy dog orbs a run for their money. Her body is petite, but she apparently has the strength to carry around a bulky stack of report cover boxes fairly easily.

Sam is still blushing furiously, but he manages to lift his head up enough to croak out a quick greeting. Dean has not seen the little geek this uncomfortable in ages.

"Hi."

The girl smiles widely, showing off perfect white teeth, and she deposits her boxes on the table that Sam is working at. Making her way over to his side, she peers over his shoulder and tries to get a glimpse of the book he is hunched over.

"So, what are you reading today?"

Sam shifts slightly in his seat, clearing his throat awkwardly. For a minute, Dean thinks that maybe this girl is some over rambunctious admirer and starts to intercept until he sees a sheepish grin cross his brothers face. He realizes quickly that Sam definitely likes the bubbly brunette and backs off.

"It's um..Latin," Sam answers quietly and even though he is not looking at the girl, his face pleads for understanding.

Fortunately, Dean seems to be right in that she is a female version of his geek boy brother. She squeals and her face is almost stretched to the breaking point by her smile.

"Latin? That is _so_ neat! I didn't even know the school offered it."

Sam shifts in his seat again and throws Dean a nervous look. His big brother shrugs and nods, giving him the go-ahead.

"Um...the school doesn't teach it. My Dad is kind of old fashioned. He insisted on me learning it."

The girl looks clearly impressed and she beams at Sam. "That is so cool. Your Dad sounds awesome."

Out of habit, Sam bristles at the praise of his father and it rankles on Dean's nerves that even now Sam can't be grateful for something that John had taken pains to teach them. Annoyed, he decides that Sam's free pass from humiliation is over with that slight on their Dad. He scowls and clears his throat loudly making Sam stiffen, knowing that his brother is now expecting an introduction.

The girl's blue eyes cloud over with irritation, as if Dean is the rudest thing she has ever seen, and she levels him with a glare until Sam speaks.

"Uh..this is my brother Dean," he says quietly, jerking his chin in his brother's direction. He pauses for a second and forces the next few words out, already knowing what the fallout of them is going to be. "Dean, this is my friend, Alex."

And with those few words, it all comes together.

Dean smirks at his little brother who is desperately trying to hide behind his shaggy fringe and jumps off of the washer. He approaches Alex, who is now smiling at him since he has been identified as the big brother that Sam is constantly talking about.

"It's nice to meet you Alex," he greets her, in his friendliest voice. The one saved for grandmothers and friends of John and not the one he uses when he is making a move on a pretty girl. For which Sam is truly thankful.

Sam's gratitude isn't long lasting. He watches as Dean cocks his head to the side, as if he is putting puzzle pieces together, and Sam already knows what his brother is going to say before the words even come out of his mouth.

"So, are you the Alex that's working on that play?" Dean's voice is polite and inquisitive and Sam recognizes it as the con man voice that he uses on the job. For her part, Alex perks up even more and she nods enthusiastically.

"Yeah, I am. Actually, that's why I'm here. I saw Sam through the window and I was hoping to get him to change his mind about tryouts on Wednesday."

Sam is now staring down at the floor, hoping that it will miraculously open up and swallow him whole. He hears his brother snicker and steels himself for more embarrassment.

"Really?" Dean raises an eyebrow and gifts Alex with the smile that always gets his way with pretty girls. "What makes you think Sammy boy would be a good actor?"

Alex's perkiness is contagious and she gushes over. "Oh, well, because when our class read the play in English Lit last month, Sam did a super job with the part of George. It would be so awesome to have him do it up on the stage. Everyone thinks so."

"Everyone?" Dean asks, barely able to keep a straight face, especially when Alex nods with such energy that her ponytail practically bounces off of her head. He turns to his little brother who seems to be mouthing words to himself and realizes, after a few seconds, that Sam is attempting to exorcise him. He is seconds away from losing his composure, so he turns away from them under the guise of emptying their washer and loading the dryer next to it.

Dean listens as Alex continues attempting to persuade Sam to try out. Sam keeps refusing, but Dean knows his little brother and can hear the reluctance in his voice. It's beginning to sound more and more like this play is really something that his little brother would like to do. He stays out of it though, until he hears Sam respond again, this time with a crack in his voice that generally is a precursor to him losing his temper.

"I really can't, Alex. Look, I'd like to, but I have the AP stuff on Tuesdays and my Dad has me doing things on Thursdays."

When Dean turns back around, he can see that Alex is not the kind of girl that takes no for an answer. And he is also pretty sure that it is an answer that Sam doesn't really want to give her. He listens while she calls bullshit on the AP studies and reminds him that he can do the reviews during the study hall that she shares with him and can't help smiling at the way she stands her ground.

"Yeah, well, my Dad still won't let me do it, so it doesn't matter."

Dean hates to hear the defeat in his brother's voice as he makes that admission. It's true that John will probably be fairly pissed by the idea, but Dean is determined that this is the year that Sam gets to do normal things. He still hasn't forgiven his father for confining Sam to the house without talking to him about it. He doesn't expect Dad to confer with him regarding Sam's punishments, but if he is supposed to enforce them, he would at least like the courtesy of being informed.

He walks over to his brother, ignoring the bouncy girl, and puts a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"If you want to do this, Sammy, I'll get Dad to agree to it. I told you that." Dean's voice is clear and strong and it isn't hard for Sam to believe that his big brother will do exactly what he says he will.

Sam doesn't say anything, but when he lifts his head from the table, he is once again the little boy that thought his brother could lasso the moon and Dean's heart skips a beat with forgotten affection.

Alex squeals again and she grabs her boxes, thanking Dean and telling Sam that she expects to see him at the tryouts. She waves goodbye and bounces out of the laundromat, leaving both Winchester boys exhausted from her boundless energy.

When she is gone, Dean reaches out and places his hand gently on his brother's head. Leaning into the infrequent touch, Sam closes his eyes, suddenly feeling incredibly tired.

"You really like her, don't you?"

Sam mutters a quiet '_yeah_' and Dean knows that he will do whatever he has to do to persuade their father to allow Sam to have this piece of normalcy.

***

Standing in the shabby bathroom of the motel room du jour, Dean runs a hand over his face as he looks at himself in the mirror. His head is pounding and he knows that it is more from the two day long battle that his father and brother have waged against each other than from the knock on the head that he took when the Black Dog they were hunting batted him into a tree.

He pulls a bottle of aspirin out of his toiletry bag and dry swallows three of them. Grabbing a washcloth from the towel bar, he runs it under the cold water faucet until it's damp and then wrings it out and presses it against his forehead. The soothing coolness is an instant relief from the pounding pain and he takes several deep breaths, willing himself to relax. The blissful escape lasts all of three minutes before the raised voices in the next room start again in earnest. Tossing the cloth into the sink, he shakes his head and turns to exit the tiny temporary retreat to return to his duty as middleman.

**

It's not even an hour later and Sam is sitting on the end of his lumpy bed in the dilapidated rented room. He is shaking, whether it's anger or fear, Dean doesn't know. The kid's holding a hand against the cheek that their father had slapped fairly hard before storming out and, not for the first time, Dean wonders what goes on inside his normally smart brother's mind.

Right now, he would really love to finish kicking Sam's ass, but he refrains, afraid that he will be unable to stop if he starts. Instead, he grits his teeth and yanks open their first aid kit. He pulls out a cold pack and snaps it until the chemicals inside activate. Crossing the room, he holds it out for the little bitch, not trusting himself to say a word. Stupidly, Sam refuses it at first, his injured pride bringing out his inner asshole. Dean growls dangerously and thrusts it in the kid's face. Sam will either use it or have it shoved someplace uncomfortable.

"Take it," Dean hisses and waits until the kid wises up and gingerly pulls it out of his hand. Sam holds it up against his cheek and he looks so wrecked that a small part of Dean's anger recedes.

Dean paces in front of Sam like a caged panther and each pass sets the boy more on edge. Sam knows he should be be afraid right now. His big brother is rarely this angry and, when he is, it doesn't bode well for him. The few times it has happened, Dean had damned his father's consequences and showed Sam why men twice his age and size have backed away from him in a fight.

"You on Dad's side this time?" Sam asks quietly, already knowing the answer.

"You're damned right I am!" Dean snaps back at him, and Sam recoils a little from the vehemence in his brother's voice, but Dean is not done with him. "If it had been me, I would have knocked your freakin' teeth out! I _ever_ catch you talking that way about Mom again, I will end you myself, you hear me? I don't care how mad you are at Dad."

Sam turns his head away to face the wall so Dean can't see the tears that start to well up in his eyes. He presses the cold pack tighter to his face and nods slightly. Wisely, he keeps quiet until Dean's pacing stops. Knowing that this means that his brother's anger level is starting to lower, he pushes his luck and whispers a quiet '_sorry_'.

"Yeah, well, I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."

Sam knows what his brother wants him to do, but he isn't going to. Yeah, he is sorry that he threw their father's obsession in the man's face by invoking his mother's memory, knows that this is the one thing that is guaranteed to set the old man off, but here they are, on Christmas Eve, in some shithole motel instead of the little house in Sioux Falls where their Christmas tree and the ham Dean picked up from the butcher are waiting for them. So, he is not sorry he has argued with his father, just for the manner he did it in.

Dean knows it too. He can see by the stiff posture of his stubborn little brother that the kid has no intention of making peace with their Dad. His irritation starts to rise again and he has to get out of that room before he makes himself an only child.

"I'm going out. You bolt the door after me and get your ass into bed. I'm tired of this crap, Sammy."

He waits for the grudging nod and then storms out into the night to find their father.

**

It didn't take long to track down John Winchester. As is his habit, he is sitting alone in a corner table of the bar nearest to the motel. When Dean saunters in, he sees his father slumped in his chair, looking like he took a punch to the gut, his barely touched beer sitting in front of him. As Dean passes the bar, he signals the barmaid for a bottle for himself and crosses over to his father's table. Without a word, he joins him and they sit in silence for a few minutes until Dean's drinks arrives.

Dean grabs the neck of the bottle and takes a long swallow. When he puts it down, his father finally looks up at him and the pained face that he gives Dean is the exact version of the one his brother had when he stormed out. It's just thirty years older.

"He didn't mean it, Dad," Dean says quietly, not looking his father in the eye.

John snorts softly and shakes his head. "Yeah, he did."

And Dean doesn't know how to respond to that. They both know that John is right. The barmaid returns to their table and plops a bowl of peanuts in front of them. Technically they are only for the people sitting at the bar, but she thinks that Dean has the most beautiful eyes she has seen on a man and she's hoping to get him to notice her a little more. On any other night, he would be all over it, but right now he is too embroiled in his family drama to satisfy any primal urges that he is feeling.

"I don't know how to get through to him anymore, Dean. Does he really hate me that much?"

Dean hates to hear the notes of sadness and self doubt in his father's voice. His Dad is the strongest man he knows and the man's pain is killing his oldest son.

"He doesn't hate you, Dad," he protests and, to his credit, he truly believes with his entire soul that what he has just told his father is true. Sure, Sammy may be a surly spoiled kid, but Dean needs to believe that underneath all of that hostility, he loves their father.

John doesn't respond. Doesn't want to. He needs to believe Dean's words just as badly as his son does, the weight of the alternative crushing him.

"He okay?"

Dean nods and takes another swig of beer. "Yeah, he's alright. He's in bed."

John sighs heavily. He is so tired. The effort it takes to battle with his baby boy is more than he has in reserve most days. Every day he thanks God for Dean and the unconditional support and understanding that his oldest son gives him. Without him, John doesn't know how he would have survived the past seventeen years.

The fact that it is Christmas Eve does not escape John's notice, contrary to what his youngest thinks. He had every intention on being with his boys for the holiday, but this hunt showed up out of nowhere and it was a nasty one. He is grateful for the competent assistance of his boys and grateful for the chance just to be with them, but he is consumed with the guilt of knowing that he has pulled them away from the first real home they have had since the fire.

Without preamble, he pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket and slides it over to Dean. His son looks at it, confused, and John has to prompt him to take it.

"Merry Christmas, Son," he says, his voice warm and deep. "I figured a couple months worth of rent on the house is more useful to you than anything else right now."

Dean shakes his head and tries to push the money back over to his father, but John puts out a hand and stops him.

"Take it, Dean. I'm your father and I want to put a roof over my sons' heads for a while, okay?"

Dean recognizes the pride in his father's voice and nods, pulling the money back and stuffing it into his jacket pocket.

"Yes, sir," he answers automatically, and then softer, "Thanks, Dad."

Dean's look of undisguised affection warms John up more than any wool blanket or heater ever could. He would like nothing more right now than to put his arms around his boy and hold him tight like he did when Dean was just a little guy, but restrains himself. Gestures like that make Dean uncomfortable at the best of times and it hasn't really been a good day. Later, when his son is asleep, he'll allow himself to kiss Dean's forehead as he has often done over the years and hope that his son knows how much he is loved by his old man.

Dean has always been so easy to love. He has always basked in any amount of attention that John could give him, always forgiven him for his multiple mistakes as an inept single father. Always supported his mission to hunt down the thing that ripped his family apart.

Sammy, well, Sammy was harder. As soon as he could speak in full sentences, he began to question everything that his father said and did and, truthfully, John didn't always have the answers. It's not that he loved Sammy any less, his boys were both equal in his heart, but his youngest took more energy. But it seemed that no matter what he did, or how hard he tried, John's littlest boy just didn't look at his father with the same unadulterated love that he got from his eldest. So, John tried harder, even when, to his shame, it was at Dean's expense.

It never seemed to help. John and Sam were like two identical magnets. Aligned in temperament so completely that they couldn't help but push the other away no matter how hard Dean tried to put them together. Like a man waiting for the other shoe to drop, John held his breath for the moment that the wall between them drove his baby away completely.

"Dad," Dean's voice asked for his attention, "Sammy really wants to do that theatre thing." Dean's eyes were averted as he pled his little brother's case, and John knew that he was asking for this for himself as well as Sam. "It's important to him. And he must be pretty good. They gave him the lead."

John felt his eyes widen at this news. When Sam brought up the subject earlier in the day, he had failed to mention this small tidbit of information and John found himself wondering why the boy would keep it to himself when asking for his permission to participate.

"I'll keep an eye on him, I promise. We'll make it work."

Dean finally raises his head and John sees his own eyes staring back at him, begging for this. Dean doesn't beg for anything unless it is for his brother and he knows that this is something important to both of his boys. So, even though Sam's behavior doesn't justify any leniency on his part, John nods his head.

"Okay. I'll sign the permission slip tomorrow," he acquiesces, comforted a bit by the genuine look of gratitude and relief on his oldest son's face.

**

It's after midnight when the two older hunters make their way back to the motel. Dean has a pretty good buzz going, but that half drunk beer that was on the table when Dean got to the bar was the only one that John ordered. Alcohol couldn't take away all of his pain and he didn't try to force it to when he knew it was useless. When they get inside the room that the boys are sharing, Dean stumbles into the bathroom and John walks quietly over to the bed where Sam is sleeping.

In his sleep, his curly hair framing his face angelically, Sam looks much younger than his actual years and John finds himself wistfully remembering a more peaceful time with his littlest boy. He sees the still slightly pinkened cheek and his stomach roils with guilt as a tear slips out of his right eye. Bending over, he entwines the fingers of his right hand in the dark brown curls and gently brushes the hurt cheek with his lips.

"I'm sorry, kiddo," he whispers and then he straightens up, hearing Dean coming out of the bathroom. Dean is exhausted and more drunk than he admitted to. With a small smile on his face, John helps his oldest into his bed, surprised when Dean allows him to pull the blankets up to his neck. It only takes a minute for the older boy to fall into a deep sleep and John takes the opportunity to give his forehead the kiss he had planned on earlier.

As he makes his way towards the door and back to his own room, he looks at his slumbering sons one more time and thanks God for their safety and good health. It's the best Christmas present that he can be given.

"Merry Christmas, boys. Daddy loves you," he mutters in the silence of the room before letting himself out and locking the door up tight with his key.

****


End file.
